The First Time
by Film and Junk
Summary: Roger loves Mark. Mark loves Roger. What could go wrong? preRENT MarkRoger COMPLETE
1. First Encounter

Disclaimer: RENT and its characters are property of Jonathan Larson. I'm just playin' with them.

Roger closed his eyes and leaned his head against the brick wall. He took a long drag off his cigarette. The cold air brought every bead of sweat into harsh contrast, reminding him of the bright colored lights as he stood at the front of the stage and felt the essence of himself grow and pulse over the crowd. His heartbeat filled his ears with music more beautiful than he could create of himself, and with every twitch of that muscle Roger's awareness grew. It was an expansion of the deep, good feeling he had when he tuned the A, playing E and A to resonate together for a hollow, haunting echo.

Now Roger was not on stage. He was not the center of attention. He was a lonely boy sitting on an old crate in a snowy back alley, thinking about his guitar but not daring to play with a cig hanging off his lip.

The 'Hungarians had not exactly received the best response that night, and why not when Aaron was the worst bassist/lyricist in the world and Jezie was not only constantly off-beat but also, rather noticeably, a girl? Jason was all right, the man kept a steady rhythm, but at times Roger felt that he was the only truly talented Well Hungarian.

Roger sighed. And was he talented at all?

Hinges squeaked, a door slammed shut, and Roger did not bother opening his eyes. It was probably some drunk needing to puke or something. _Brilliant._ Now he got to wait in a stinking alley, not just a grungy alley, or an alley with a couple losing their virginity/screwing/necking. Roger pointedly kept his eyes closed as he took another drag, then lifted the cigarette from his mouth to exhale.

"Hey. Could I…?"

Roger opened his eyes and rolled them to the left. It was not a couple, nor a drunk, who had joined him in the alley, but a young man, average height-- maybe a little smaller than Roger-- with blond hair and plastic-frame glasses. It was me. "Could you…?" Roger mock-echoed.

"Bum one," I added.

Roger dug into the pocket of his faded, torn 501s, the loved pajama-by-night, trouser-by-day pants, and brought out a crumpled pack of Lucky Strikes. He tossed the pack to me.

I clapped my hands together, fumbled, and bent to retrieve the cigarette pack from the snow. _Smooth._ I then took one and tossed the pack back to Roger. "Thanks."

Roger caught it one-handed, not bothering to turn his head. He wasn't sure if he was showing off or simply too lazy to be bothered. He had just returned to his reverie when I said, "Uh, I'm sorry to bother you again but do you have a light?" In truth, I had no matches on me. I was not merely using that as an excuse-- well, I was. But I also had no light.

"Here." Roger reached into his pocket, then paused.

Roger stood and walked over to me, flicking on his Bic as he went. My heart stammered. The fluttering light sent shadows dancing in his eyes, across his hollow cheeks. He lit the cigarette, then extinguished the lighter and dropped it in his back pocket. "I'm Roger," he said.

I offered my hand. It was a formality, but more importantly-- I liked Roger. I liked when he was up under those bright lights. He made me sweat. And finding him out in that alley, I barely believed my luck. So I extended my hand, saying, _Touch me._ "Mark. Mark Cohen."

Roger shook my hand. "Hey, Mark Cohen." His fingers were long and thin, callused and warm.

"I really liked your set," I blurted. "You guys were… well… you have a nice voice. You play your own guitar?"

Roger laughed. I blushed, and Roger found himself smiling, warmed slightly by that blush. _Kinda cute…_ "Yeah." He slid the fingers of his right hand along the back of my hand and brought it out, then rested the stony fingers of his left hand against my palm. These were the calluses of musicians and day laborers; this was the touch of an artist, dedication… did I dare hope for passion?

"Well, you play well. I--"

Before I could finish, the door opened. It was Collins, searching for me since I had disappeared from the club. "Hey! So, not having the best time in there, huh, Mark?" he asked/

I shook my head. "It was fine," I told my friend, momentarily turning my back on Roger. I had not been crazy about the bad music and stale air, but the atmosphere had a certain spark to it. Too bad I was wet wood.

Collins frowned. "I thought you gave those up," he said. The man smoked like a chimney: who was he to lecture me? Before I could say as much, he continued, "So you want to just head back to the Life?"

My muscles relaxed. Trust Collins to know just what to do, how to salvage an evening! "Yeah, you mind?" He shook his head. "Thanks. Hey… let's invite him."

"Who?"

I turned to indicate Roger and realized he had retreated back into the alley. "Well, he's cool. We'll meet you out front, okay?"

"Sure."

"Roger!"

Roger turned. "Yeah?" he asked.

I walked down to him. "Are you busy?" I asked. "Are you playing again?" Roger shook his head. He couldn't remember the last time the Well Hungarians had an encore. Had he ever had an encore? He doubted that. "Well, we were just going to grab something to eat. You're welcome to join us, if…"

"I'd love to." Roger grinned.

"Great. So, hey, come on-- that's all your stuff?" Roger nodded. "Great." Roger grabbed his jacket and guitar and followed me out of the alley. "This is Roger," I told Collins. "He's the front man for the Well Hungarians." The first time I heard that name I snickered, but the novelty had worn off.

"Hey, Roger. I'm Collins-- Tom Collins, but everyone calls me Collins."

Roger said, "Hey," and shook his hand. We headed for the nearest subway. "So how long have you two been together?"

_Oh, G-d._ I blushed and watched my feet. Collins laughed, and Roger knew at once that he liked this man. Even too-proud, too-sensitive Roger was not offended by the laugh, though he had unintentionally inspired it. "No, no, no," Collins said. "We're friends."

The subway was all but empty. I took a seat at the end of the row and Roger wasted no time in thumping down beside me. It was there that I got my first good look at him-- not him under bright lights, not the shadows dancing on his face, cast by a lighter in a dim alley, but Roger, just Roger. He was tall, I knew as much already, with carelessly tossed hair-- dark blond, darker than mine-- and, ooh, bright eyes. He had just these incredible bright green eyes, big, like a baby's eyes, eyes that smiled more than his cupid's-bow lips ever could.

I was thrown against the partition as the train jolted out of the station. Collins grabbed my shoulder. "You okay, Mark?" he asked. After a moment, I realized that he was squinting at me, seeking signs of drunkenness.

"Yeah, I'm fine," I said, giving a little smile. Roger was watching me, concerned. _And he's sweet…_ I wasn't sweet. My heart never bled. My college roommate, Benny, once commented that I aligned with the democrats 'entirely for Judaism--and only because the party's gone right.' Roger, however, was already frowning gently, showing concern for me, an acquaintance of some fifteen minutes. "Daydreaming, y'know," I added.

Collins nodded, obviously not convinced. "Daydreaming about how you'll end your films?" he asked, smirking.

_Jackass._

"Yes," I lied.

"You make movies?" Roger asked. I nodded. "Like, movies or talkies?" he wanted to know.

My heart jolted, and I swear the muscles in my face slackened. "Movies," I told him. He knew the difference! "Maybe talkies one day… um, they're mostly documentaries about… the city, and… well, I guess I'm trying to show other people what I see." And narrate them with my poetry, at least in my mind. These are my scripts, my scrawled and loopy-cursive poetry. No one has ever seen a complete Mark Cohen film.

I sounded like a moron, but Roger was nodding like he understood. He fingered his guitar case. "Can I see them sometime?" he asked. "Your movies."

And I found myself nodding. Before I could blather on, I added, "And Collins is a philosopher. I mean, he's… he's… you should talk to him, if you're smart enough. I don't think I am. This guy just…"

Collins laughed. "I'm greater than words," he said, grinning at both of us.

"A true tabula rasa," Roger remarked, grinning right back at him. To be honest, I had no idea what a tabula rasa was. I never took Latin-- no, Herbew was my dead language, and the philosophy unit mandatory in my high school history class never grabbed me.

What Roger said must have carried meaning, because Collins' grin was deeper. "A boy who knows his Constitution," he said. "At least, one hopes…"

Roger nodded. "'Life, liberty and the pursuit of property,'" he recited. "John Locke, natural rights of man." There was a strange look on his face, a mild challenge, awareness of his own cleverness. He straightened slightly. "I'll take Wollstonecraft any day," he added.

"The mother or the daughter?" Collins asked.

"Either. Both. Love the girl, respect the woman."

"They're dead."

"Not to me."

Collins laughed. He told me, "We better keep this boy around a while. Hey, Roger, Mark tell you what we're doing out?"

The train pulled into our stop. As we collected ourselves and disembarked, Roger admitted, "No." He took a quick step to bring himself to my side. "What are you doing out, Mark?" he asked. "It's a special occasion or something?"

I nodded. "It's my birthday."

Roger froze. "Hey," he said. "I'm sorry, man, if I'd known… I don't want to stomp on your party."

He looked ready to bolt. Before I could think, I reached out and grabbed his wrist. "No," I said. "I invited you for a reason."

A look crossed Roger's face, a mix of anger and sorrow I think, then he nodded. "Okay," he said. Throughout the rest of our walk, I caught Collins watching Roger, studying him. "So how old are you?" Roger asked. "Old enough yet that it's rude to ask?"

I laughed. "Hardly. I'm twenty-one."

"How old are you?" Collins asked.

Roger smirked. "I'm twenty, how old are you?" he returned, brassy and rude in a way that should have upset me, but instead set my heart pumping a little faster. A shot of Roger flashed through my mind, breaking his knees to--

A loud laugh interrupted my dirty daydream. "Boy," Collins said, "you are not twenty. You're…" he paused, apparently calculating, then said, "You are seventeen if you're a day."

Roger returned Collins' laugh with his own, and a toss of his head that highlighted the eyeliner rimming his eyes. No wonder they stood out. No wonder the green, a green which alone could have caused my glance to linger, made my knees weak. Normally the thought of a man in eyeliner brought to mind the image of a clumsy, teenage drag-queen, but Roger made it work. "Aw, leave him alone," I said. "You'll scare him off-- oh. We're here."

"'Life Café', huh?" Roger asked. "It's good?"

"Yeah."

We sat and Roger glanced at a menu. "It's vegetarian." I couldn't tell if he was asking or observing or complaining.

I nodded. "Yup. At least, I've never seen anything with meat here."

Collins looked at me and began to laugh. Tears welled up in his eyes. "Oh, Mark," he said. "I love you, man." Roger, too, was snickering, and as I realized why I found myself smiling and blushing. "Uh… yeah," I mumbled. "It's not a problem for you, is it?" I asked Roger.

He shook his head. "No, no, not at all."

We ordered. Despite this being my twenty-first birthday, I did not order alcohol. "So, are you working?" I asked Roger. "Or, um, in college…?"

He flinched. "College was never for me," he muttered quickly. "Mostly I just work with the Well Hungarians… I play all the time but, you know, I'm thinking staying with them maybe isn't the best."

"They just need practice," I said. The Well Hungarians had sounded awful. If not for Roger, I probably would have forgotten them already, certain that years from now I would not hear the name though I might try to dig it from the recesses of my memory to remark on the crude cleverness of the wordplay.

Roger scoffed. "Yeah, and a lyricist," he said. "We play Aaron's songs, they're… well, you heard them."

"Do you write songs?" I asked, hoping he did. I wrote poems, but Roger, this boy who sang so beautifully, could surely in the blink of an eye outshine my faded words.

He nodded. "They're no good though. Um, so tell me about your documentaries. Do you just go out and film?"

I nodded. "Pretty much. I look for specific shots. If you want to, you could…"

"I'd love to!"

"Great! Just be prepared to get a tan, you'll be in the sun all day."

Roger looked at his arms, twisting them from the faded buttery hue of the backs of his forearms to the undersides of his arms, pale as a fish's belly. "I have a tan," he said.

This was possibly the funniest thing Collins had heard all evening. "You must be the whitest white boy in history," he said. "You've got a tan and you're still snow-pale."

"Yellow snow," Roger retorted, giggling.

"Yeah, whatever, Snowflake," Collins said.

It is not only ridiculous but slightly humiliating, how I felt when Collins used that pet name for Roger. I was jealous. My social skills were never exceptional; I was often lonely, as a child, and shy to make friends. I wanted Roger, as a friend if not more, yet already he and Collins spoke their own language, locking me out, laughing at their own jokes. Already Collins had a pet name for him, was laughing at something and reaching over and give Roger a playful shove. I was beyond envy. I was furious.

---

The cold air shivered through us as we stepped out of the Life Café, laughing and grinning at our general high spirits. Roger checked his watch. "Oh, shit. It's… I gotta get going--"

"Well, hey, what's the rush?" I asked. I didn't want him to leave yet.

Roger shook his head. "I need to get home. Shit. I'm still scared of this place at night…"

"Come stay with us," I blurted. "I mean, we have a spare room, it's not far, and you'll be safe-- right, Collins? He can spend the night."

Collins nodded. "Someone waiting for you at home?" he asked. Roger shook his head once more. "Then, yeah. You can crash with us."

"Great. Thanks. Thank you."

When we reached the loft, I pointed out the spare room to Roger. "You can just, uh… here, you can borrow one of my blankets."

"I couldn't," Roger protested, but I headed into my room, leading him by the wrist. When I dropped his wrist he stood, shaking his head. "You've already done enough," he said, "more than enough." I did not go to my bed. As Roger was protesting, as his mouth was open, I scraped together all of my courage, bounced twice on my heels as though about to begin a race, then pressed my mouth hard against his. My tongue explored the depths of his mouth.

Roger froze. He batted his eyelids in shock, then said, "Mm." Then, surprised, "Mm!" He kissed me back. His hands caressed my arms and back; my fingers found his hair.

It was Roger who broke the kiss, but when I offered him a place in my bed that night, he did not refuse.

TO BE CONTINUED!

This story may eventually include Benny and Maureen; yes, they have been taken into consideration.

Reviews would be awesome... please?


	2. Second Date

Disclaimer: RENT is the property of Jonathan Larson's. I'm just playing with his characters.

Mark sighed. It was late, the room dark, and he awoke to a thickness in his mouth. "Yulch."

"Mark?" Roger asked quietly. He had never before slept in a stranger's bed. He had never before slept so close to anyone, shared the warmth under the blankets, and he found it a strangely comforting sensation. He felt the same warm embrace of elements as sinking into a warm bath. Roger rarely bathed-- he preferred the violent swiftness of showers. "You awake?" he asked.

"Yeah," Mark whispered. He faced the wall. "What's up?"

"I, uh… I wondered if you were awake," Roger replied, "that's all."

There was a moment of silence filled with noises of a large living space left to its own devices, some settling and dripping, mostly the rush of blood pumping through ears. Then there was a rustling of blankets, a squeaking of springs, and Mark barely knew what was happening until Roger had moved away, and the nape of Mark's neck was damp from Roger's sloppy kiss.

Roger stared away, blushing, heart pounding. He licked his lips, savoring the taste of Mark.

Mark pulled Roger into his arms and pressed his erection against Roger's backside. A smile crept onto his face as Roger shivered, his breathing reduced to whimpering gasps. Mark's hands wandered across the light muscle of Roger's abdomen. He lifted Roger's shirt and felt the trail of fuzz leading into his boxers.

Roger smiled. He liked this. He liked Mark's touch, the closeness, Mark's erection against his bottom making his eyes roll. He liked the loud, hot gasps of Mark's breath on his neck. He liked the way his heart thudded, the way his throat twisted and his penis moved in his shorts. He was smiling so widely he knew in seconds that smile would break into a thousand giggles.

So Roger was as surprised as Mark to hear his voice ask, "Mark?" Because a part of Roger-- though he knew not which part of why-- wanted Mark to stop. "I…" He needed to talk. He needed what happened tonight to be something he wanted, surely and openly.

"Do you…?" Mark was frozen, his fingertips on the waistband of Roger's shorts.

Roger coughed. "Maybe I… should sleep on the couch."

---

A week later, the boys had not spoken. Mark glanced at the ringing telephone, shook his head and sipped his coffee. He had given Roger his number, but the lack of call was hardly surprising. What had Mark been thinking, trying to make a move on someone he had barely known for four hours? Roger was probably traumatized, convinced Mark was some sort of sex maniac. The call was probably his mother. Mark shivered. He did not want to speak to his mother.

"Hey," said Collins' recorded voice on the answering machine. "Hello? Is anyone there?" Mark laughed. He loved Collins' joke. "Look, if anyone's there-- leave a message after the beep." _Beep._

"Hey, Mark, are you there?" Mark looked up from his coffee cup. "Okay, I guess you're out. It's Roger calling-- uh, we met on your birthday, remember? I--

Mark picked up the phone. "Roger. Of course I remember you! Hey."

"Hey! You- you're home!" Roger was grinning hugely.

"Yeah. We always screen our calls. Um, so, how are you?" After being felt up by a complete stranger...

"Great! I... uh..." As Roger mumbled, trying to scrape together an ounce of courage, Mark bit his lip. He glanced at Collins, who was laughing quietly. _Thanks for your support..._ "Gooutwithme!"

"What?"

Roger slapped a hand to his forehead. That had gone poorly. "I... I just wondered if you might like to go out sometime. On a date. Is this Wednesday good for you?" _Or was what happened on your birthday just a drunk mistake?_

Mark blushed. He turned to Collins, who shrugged. "Don't ask me, ask the boy's parents!"

It was not funny to Mark, but he gave a chuckle for Collins' sake. "Yeah," Mark told Roger. "I'll be free then."

"Great! I'll pick you up around six o'clock, then."

"Six is great."

---

Mark paced. He had agonized over this moment. Having no idea where Roger was taking him, he had not known how to dress, and so bit his nails to stubs choosing clothing that was nice, neat, but not too neat. After all, he first met Roger in a club wearing worn blue jeans and a T-shirt with the sleeves cut off. If such clubs were Roger's scene, Mark had nothing to wear. But if Roger took him somewhere even vaguely sophisticated, his neat button-down shirt would be fine.

After two days of agony, Mark had resigned himself. He was proud, satisfied… and beginning to crack! "He's late!" Mark told Collins.

Collins, stretched out on the couch, looked up from Voltaire to remind Mark, "It's 6:02."

"He said six." Mark's sweaty fingers dug into the arms of the chair.

When the telephone rang, he leaped to his feet and froze. "Mark, hey, it's Roger--"

"He's canceling," Mark told Collins.

Collins rolled his eyes. _Have you ever been in a relationship?_ "Give him a chance."

"I'm outside the building--"

Mark grabbed the receiver. "I'll be right there." He hung up.

When Mark hit the street, Roger lit up like a streetlamp. He looped an arm around Mark's waist and pulled him close. "Hey," and he kissed him.

"You're late," Mark said.

Roger snickered. "I said _around_ six. I'm sorry. Are you horribly angry?" he asked, jesting.

"I'm sure you'll think of some way to make it up to me," Mark said. _Is he wearing eyeliner?_ "Where are we going?"

"Out to dinner. Come on." Roger slipped his fingers into Mark's back pocket and led him out of Alphabet City.

In the restaurant, Mark caught an entirely fresh glimpse of Roger. Gone was the dirt and grunge of their first encounter, replaced with blue button-down shirt and combed hair. Mark shivered. He had thought Roger looked good onstage. Who was this strange, this gentle, beautiful being who had replaced the feel-it-in-your-groin rock g-d? Mark wanted Roger. Badly.

"Does this place serve meat?" he teased.

Roger grinned. It seemed to be a new grin, but he had one arm wrapped around Mark's waist and had been grinning inanely since leaving Alphabet City. "Yes," he said. "Oh-- I'm sorry, I should have asked… they only have Singha, is that okay with you?"

Mark nodded. "I don't even know that that is."

"Beer."

"I can go a night without beer. I'm not an alcoholic." _Would I have been in the club if I was?_

"Oh, good! I mean-- not-- well, of course good, but…" Roger stammered.

"It's okay," Mark told him. "Just relax. I'm having a good time."

"Oh, good." Roger sighed. The exhale sounded harassed. "So, do you like spicy food?"

Mark nodded. "Yes." _It's sexual. Delicious and horny._ "Let's get vindaloo."

Roger chuckled. He leaned across the table to kiss Mark's cheek, and when he sat again in the spindly metal chair, he was blushing. "Vindaloo is Indian," he said. "This place is Thai. But I'll take you for Indian next time," he added, not to sound as though he was gloating. "That is, if you want there to be a next time."

A shiver raced up Mark's spine. _Good thing it's you and not the curry that I want._ He smiled. "Okay. Hey, is mee krob Thai? I had that once, it was good."

After they had placed their order, Roger said, "So-- Jewish, but not kosher."

"How do you…?"

"You ordered mee krob. Mee krob has shrimp." Roger shrugged. "And I love Sherlock Holmes," he added.

Mark grinned. Was there anything about this boy that was not one hundred per cent adorable? "Deliciousness before kosher," he said.

---

As the two walked back into Alphabet City, Mark's mind raced. He could not remember the last time he felt so strongly attracted to anyone. Should he invite Roger up? He certainly wanted to, but what if that was moving too quickly for Roger? What if he asked and Roger denied the offer?

"I'll walk you to the door," Roger offered. Mark nodded and laced his fingers through Roger's, taking silent note of Roger's tented trousers. Suddenly Mark knew exactly how he wanted this evening to end. Roger knew, too, up to the point at which he stood before Mark and lost his nerve. "W-well, I hope you had a good time--"

"Yeah."

"Great! Good. So, I guess I'll-- mmmf!" Mark had pushed Roger against the wall and sealed his mouth with a kiss. As he continued, their kisses were hot and desperate, lips locking and pulling apart with loud smacks. When Roger let out a particularly throaty moan, Mark pulled back enough to whisper, "Want to come inside?"

Roger practically purred at the innuendo. "I'd love to." The words hurt. Roger felt the thud of his pulse throughout his entire body, heavy as a hammerstroke straight to his groin, but pleasant, like a sugar so sweet he wanted to cry.

He jittered as Mark unlocked the door, at the prospect suddenly harder, desperate. Roger didn't just want Mark, he could have him. The nearness stoked the fire. Roger's stomach tightened. Beads of sweat trickled down his neck. This hurt; Roger was suffering and wanted Mark to make him suffer this ecstasy so pure it hurt.

They stumbled into Mark's bedroom. Mark pushed the door shut with his foot. He could not take his mouth off of Roger's, drawn by the contact of spit against spit, probing harder at Roger's reluctance, as though he would move more if he knew how.

After, when the two had caught their breath and the sheets would never be the same, Mark looked to Roger, lying beside him. He smiled. _Hey, beautiful…_ Mark reached over and stroked Roger's cheek. It was damp. "Roger!" Mark propped himself up on one elbow. "You should have told me! I would have stopped."

"No." Roger shook his head. "I… I liked it. It was good. It was… wow. I… it's just… you were…"

And Mark understood. "Oh my G-d. Roger, you're a virgin?"

---

beepbeepbeep. beepbeepbeep. beepbeepbeep.

Roger moaned; his watch alarm beeped from somewhere nearby. Where…? Oh. Now he remembered. He was in Mark's arms, happy and safe and warm. Roger would gladly have stayed there for hours, had his watched not woken him. He groaned, realizing what he had to do, and left the bed.

After silencing his watch, Roger pulled on his boxers and pants. He was buttoning his shirt when Mark opened his eyes. "Wha… Roger… come back to bed."

Roger hurried to the bed and kissed Mark. "I love you." Roger meant that. He jumped to his feet. "But I have to run."

"Why?" Mark reached out an arm and caught Roger. He pulled him back to bed. Roger allowed this, even played into it, giving Mark playfully little kisses across his face.

"I need to feed the cat before work," Roger said.

"Fine. Have a good day at work, then."

"I'd say the same, but…" Roger laughed. "I'll call you."

Mark tried to squelch a growing feeling of dread. This was sounding more and more like the talk following a one-night stand. And he had believed every word. Was Roger even a virgin? "Can I call you?"

Roger planted a final kiss before saying, "Of course you can," and heading out.

Mark sank back into his mattress. He heard the door close and imagined Roger hurrying down the stairs. It was then that Mark realized that he had permission, he had a telephone, but he was lacking the vital seven digits.

"Fuck!"

TO BE CONTINUED!

Credit to LondonBelow for the "deliciousness before kosher" rule.

Reviews would be most awesome!


	3. Third Time's the Charm

Disclaimer: RENT is Jonathan Larson's. I'm just playin' with the characters.

Collins' joke rang through the loft, his recorded answer, followed by the beep and Roger's cheerful voice. "Hey, guys, are you there? If you're there, pick up! It's me, Roger, calling for Mark... Mark Cohen..."

Mark practically leapt for the receiver. "Roger, hi!" Behind him, Collins mock-shouted, "Touchdown!" Mark threw him a dirty look, which only made Collins laugh.

"Mark!" Roger grinned ear to ear. Just hearing Mark's voice made him smile.

"Hey, I heard you called earlier. Sorry I wasn't home," Mark said. Again his roommate laughed. _Please tell me Collins hasn't traumatized you…_

"Yeah, I talked to Collins. He's pretty cool. So you were out filming, right?"

"Mmhm, I hadn't filmed in a while. I guess I was in a sort of filming slump." Mark smiled wryly. His 'slump' had lasted for some time, long enough to be more a trend than an abnormality.

Roger wanted to know, "Will I get to see any of what you filmed?"

"Probably not until they're cut and edited and made into a movie."

_Which will be never, right? _Roger gave himself a mental punch in the mouth. _Dammit, Roger, don't do that! Don't fucking do that!_ "Well, I'm on pins and needles. Anyway, I'm pushing, sorry. I'm sorry. I was calling to ask when you... if you... wanted to get together again."

Mark teased, "I don't know...are you asking me out on another date, or a platonic 'get together'?" He twisted the phone cord around his index finger.

Roger blushed. _Someday you can ask me out on a date... _"It's a date. Probably a cheap date--sorry. Probably... yeah," he babbled. "But I miss you."

"I miss you, too. And I'd love to go out on another date."

"Great! Where do you want to go? Or should I surprise you?"

Roger's awkwardness relaxed Mark. The last of his doubts were dissipated-- Roger had not lied last time. Not only had he called again, he had definitely been a virgin. His constant habit of referring decisions proved that. "Well seeing as how you asked me out, you decide the place," Mark prompted. "Which reminds me, I realized I don't have your number..." There was an extended silence. "Roger? You there?"

"Yeah. Sorry, lousy line. Did you say something?" Roger asked.

"I don't hear any static... can you still hear me?"

Mark heard a series of high-pitched beeps and frowned. Was Roger dialing? He then heard a muffled shout of, "I'm on the phone!"

A woman's voice replied, "I need the line now, honey! You'll have to call back!" Mark's frown deepened. Roger lived with a woman? What was going on? His heart twisted. Was he being played? Suddenly every affection Mark had felt towards Roger doubled back as a punch in the gut.

"Okay! Hang up so I can say 'bye."

"You're not saying anything you can't say to me."

"I need my privacy!"

She hung up.

"Sorry, Mark, that was my grandma. I live with my grandma, that's why I can't give you my number, she... she's a little crazy, you know?" Roger asked.

"You live with your grandma?" _I swear you told me you lived alone with a cat... _Mark had liked the image of his awkward boyfriend in a small, well lit but somehow small and drafty at once apartment with a messy bed, a crusty sandwich, his guitar and white socks. "I understand."

"Yeah. My grandma, it's her cat, the one I have to feed every day. Anyway, I should go before she picks up again. You doing anything a week from Sunday?" Roger asked.

"Nope."

"Can I pick you up around two-thirty?"

"You can indeed." He smiled, already excited for this date.

"Great! 'Bye."

---

At five minutes before two-thirty, the telephone rang. Roger waited for the machine with a silly grin and said, "Hey, Mark, it's Roger. You there? Well, I hope so, since we agreed on the time... come on, pick up!" he whined, laughing.

Mark rushed over to the phone from his room and picked up the receiver. "Hey." He was not ready for Roger. His sweater was half over his head; he pulled it on as he listened for Roger's answer.

Roger grinned. "Hey. You coming down, or should I call back in..." he checked his watch "... four and a half minutes?"

"You're usually not that punctual." Mark laughed. "I'm coming down now."

"I was two minutes late!" Roger protested.

"So you admit you were late!" Grinning, feeling victorious, he said, "See you in a few." He attempted to hang up and in the attempt realized that he had pulled on his sweater over the telephone. Mark took off the sweater, hung up the phone, and the pulled on his sweater and his scarf, and hurried down the stairs. He had kept Roger waiting long enough to make him officially late for their third date.

When Mark emerged, Roger kissed him. "Hey."

"Hi." He leaned forward and planted a kiss of his own.

They walked. Roger looped one arm around Mark's waist and slipped his hand into Mark's back pocket. Mark shivered and suppressed a moan. _It's obscene how much I love you. It's something out of a cheesy made-for-TV-movie aired on Valentine's Day on The Women's Network. _As they were going into the subway, Roger said, "I love this about the city. You can get anywhere."

Mark nodded, agreeing. "They didn't have subways back where you grew up?" he asked.

"Uh... some of it. I mean, we moved out here when I was maybe nine or ten but... sorry." He laughed a bit, blushed a bit. Roger stepped away from Mark to buy their tickets. To improve his mood and because it bounced into his mind, he hummed the first few bars of The Beatles' _Ticket to Ride_. The usual rush of envy and admiration churned in his gut.

"You don't have to apologize. Every place is different, you know?" Mark stepped up and pecked Roger's cheek.

"I know. Definitely." They sat side-by-side on the subway and Roger wrapped an arm around Mark's shoulders. He wanted to drape himself across Mark completely--but didn't dare. "You ever live outside New York? I mean, you lived in... Rhode Island, right? Sorry, I'm no good at college geography."

Mark nodded. Had he mentioned Brown? Their conversations blurred. Roger asked so many questions, between the deluge and the flattery Mark could only be candid. "Yeah, I lived there for a few years."

"What was college like?" Roger knew he would never get to college, and a part of him was starting to regret that. "Were you happy there?" He wanted to know every tiny detail. At the same time, he wanted to know nothing. He wanted to ignore it, to be on a level with Mark, instead of inferior. Roger cringed internally. He hated being inferior, and he was.

Mark sighed. "College was...I spent my whole life working hard to get into college. I mean it, my whole. damn. life. I was so eager to go...I thought it would be the best years of my life, you know? Elementary, junior high, and high school were all hell and without realizing it, I had placed so many expectations on college life..." He sighed. "When I finally got to Brown, it wasn't anything like I'd thought it'd be. It was more work, more high school. Only harder. I wasn't very happy, so I left."

Roger hugged Mark, protective. _Swallow guilt like a snake… swallow envy, swallow bitterness, and let it all boil down to hate. Hate yourself. Hate will set you free. _"Poor Mark." Roger nuzzled Mark's neck lightly. "I can't imagine how you must have felt, leaving that behind. Everything you knew, everything you wanted."

Mark leaned into the special embrace Roger offered and asked, "How about you? Why didn't you ever go?" _Yikes, this boy can hug._ Mark had never been with anyone who relaxed him quite as thoroughly as Roger did.

"I... wasn't the college type. I mean, I always knew I wouldn't... school wasn't for me," Roger mumbled. He squeezed his eyes shut, hoping Mark would not notice.

Mark did notice. He pulled Roger onto his lap, pressing a soft kiss on each closed eyelid. He whispered, "Hey...we don't have to talk about it. It's okay."

"I love you so much." It's true. All Roger could think about was how upset he iwa, how he wanted to go to college and only now realized how much he wanted it. How he fell into that trap of believe what they told him, believing he had no worth. But Mark cared and loved him, Mark never shouted, and knew he could never say enough times how much that matters.

Mark held Roger close, instinctively knowing it made Roger feel better. After a moment of silence, he commented, "It's never too late, you know." Mark didn't want Roger to feel like this. He wanted Roger to live every one of his dreams without any regret. It was the feeling Mark had chased, leaving Brown.

Roger sighed. He had new dreams now, dreams about his guitar and about Mark--separately, of course. "Let's not talk about this." _No need for you to hear my dreary angst_. "Tell me about Scarsdale. About being a kid in settled life in the suburbs."

_I'd really rather not. "_There's not much to say. I probably hated Scarsdale more than I hated Brown."

"I'm sorry." Roger tilted his head to looked Mark in the eyes. He wormed one arm free of the embrace, loath though he was to do so, and rested his fingers against Mark's cheek. _Hm. Needs a shave… _"Are you happy now, Mark?"

"Where I am?" Mark asked. "Piss poor and unemployed with no promising career ahead of me?" Mark closed his eyes. "I am, if you find that hard to believe. I'm especially happier now." Mark tightened his hold on Roger to get the point across.

Roger held him right back. "I'm glad," he said. "Really glad... that you're happy. Is it horrid that I'm glad you're here with me?"

"Horrid...no. Absolutely not."

"Good. Because right now, I feel... like the luckiest guy in the world." Roger kissed Mark, trying to make himself feel less like a romantic fool.

Mark slipped his hands up Roger's shirt, but only just, returning the sweet kiss. "When is our stop?"

Roger's stomach trembled. "Central Park Station," he said. His eyes tore away from Mark's face to watch the scrolling bar above the door. "We're nearly there."

"Okay." He kissed Roger again. "As long as you're keeping watch for our stop."

"I dunno. Some day I think we should ride the train... just ride the train. Back and forth, all day." Roger flinched. How had he done that, let slip something so thoroughly bald? How had he let his guard down for those few seconds?

"I've done that before," Mark admitted. "I wouldn't mind doing it again."

Roger laughed. "You know, we have food and everything... let's live here, on the subway. Forever, just... totally... suspended. Nothing's real. Just us. Just now."

"That'd be great, wouldn't it? But I'm afraid it's nothing more than a wistful fantasy."

A part of Roger felt the same thing he felt when his parents told him to grow up and stop living in dreams of rock grandeur, but he knew Mark had simply been through the seasons and needed a little cynicism now and again. "Some people think all life's a dream," he offered quietly, bringing his face close against Mark's chest.

Mark kissed Roger soundly, his hands slowly starting to explore the hidden skin underneath his shirt. Roger moaned. He liked Mark's hands there, on his skin, touching him.

Mark shivered. He loved it when Roger moaned. It was so sexy so... so. Mark had begun to nibble on Roger's earlobe when he stopped abruptly and looked up. "Next stop's ours."

Roger groaned. _No…_ "Promise me we'll pick this up again."

Mark grinned. "Maybe."

"Cruel, cruel man." The train ground into Central Park Station. "Come on." Roger stood, shook himself, and helped Mark up.

Once they had exited the subway, Mark asked, "So, where are you taking me today?"

Roger's hand moved of its own volition, his fingers twining themselves around Mark's. "This is... I like to come here. It's pathetic and touristy, but I like it anyway." Roger led Mark by the hand through Central Park.

"I've been here only a few times before. Never on a date, though. Mostly just for filming."

Roger knew he was taking a big risk, being a pathetic romantic, but he stopped before the angel Bethesda. She stood alone, proud, her blank eyes sending a loving chill through Roger. The usual handful of tourists was absent by some cupid-induced miracle. "This is what I wanted to... to share," he stammered. His mouth had gone dry.

"The Angel Bethesda. It heals, supposedly." Mark smiled. It was cute, affectionate, a softness he enjoyed associating with Roger.

Roger nodded. He watched the angel as he started to tell Mark, "I was... born... west. In Los Angeles and I... came here, I... I thought... I was... and things just got so bad... by the time I was eleven, I... and then I... I came here. And I saw her, this one night, after running away. I slept in the park, here, at her feet. And I've always felt like she could... protect me."

Mark was quiet while Roger told a piece of his past and when he finished, Mark commented softly, "Then I guess I'm extremely grateful to her. If she hadn't protected you... I might not have you here today." He blushed at his own words, sounding forced to his own ears even though he truly meant them.

Roger hugged Mark from behind. He could not tell him what she protected him from, how many times he dashed the water over his arms and prayed, as he never did or believed in church.

Mark leaned into Roger's embrace, wishing he could pry further into Roger's story. "I haven't visited her in a long time."

Roger kissed Mark's neck. "Does she protect you, also?" he wondered aloud, eyes on the angel. "What a woman."

Mark squirmed slightly. He liked it when Roger kissed him there. "I don't know if she's appointed herself to protect me… I don't think I've ever asked her to. She must have a million people to look over. I wonder what it feels like to be her."

Roger snickers wickedly. "Well, I don't think you'd like it. For one thing, I'd never do this." He kissed again and again, breathing in the taste of Mark.

Mark giggled and squirmed.

Roger enjoyed that very much. He glanced around the park; there was no one around. It was not exactly a pleasant day: cold, snow on the ground. "Hey, Mark, guess what else we're gonna do here?"

Mark suddenly groaned. "If you suggest hot dogs, I'm going to have to hurt you," he warned.

Roger snickered. "Naw. Picnic. I hate hot dogs. Ketchup is good... hot dogs, no."

"Picnic? We're gonna have a picnic here?" He turned his head and smiled at Roger. "You gonna serenade me with your guitar, too?"

_Dammit! I should've brought the guitar!_ "...I can serenade you a capella if you want."

Mark turned around to face Roger and slipped his arms around Roger's waist. "Only if you want. Though there really is no need." He leaned in to whisper in Roger's ear, "No need to court what's already yours, you know?"

"That mean you don't want me to cook for you?" Roger asked, teasing. "Or are you mocking my singing?"

"Neither, both, who knows?"

Roger laughed. _Not you, college boy._ The light teasing thought comforted him. "Come on. Let's picnic and... frolic and... romp." He opened his bag and pulled out a picnic blanket.

Mark laughed and said softly, "I'd rather romp in the sheets, not out in the streets." He settled down next to Roger and eagerly waited to see what Roger would pull out of his bag. This was a side of Roger previously concealed from Mark, and that excited Mark immensely. It seemed at every meeting Roger revealed something else he was: rock, taste, and now a (hopefully) talented chef. Mark suddenly wished it was the next date, just so he could know a new side of Roger.

"Hey, romp can be innocent... I'm fuzzy on kosher laws, so if this breaks them in any way, I'm sorry." He upended the bag, spilling out plastic utensils and tupperware containers, blushing at the whiteness. Roger's racial lack of culture had always embarrassed him, but since Collins' nickname at their first meeting, Roger had blushed at his white-middle-class background. "It's, um, fried rice. And cookies. Separately."

"Deliciousness before kosher," Mark said in a singsong voice. He scooted closer to Roger and picked up the romp conversation, still not willing to let it die. "But Roger.. what if I don't want it to be innocent?"

"Then I am slave to your will." Roger kissed Mark's nose. "And you know it."

"So what else did you bring?"

"Um, Cokes and pastries. Have I... mentioned that I like to bake?"

"You mentioned it at the restaurant. I've yet to see if you can bake as well as you moan though." He opened the container with the cookies and took one out.

"Bake as well as I moan," Roger repeated. He blushed. "I'm sorry about... that night. I got a little carried away and... I mean, it was my first time and all, but I do want to... please you." _Oh, no, did I just say that out loud?_

Mark chuckled. "You don't have to apologize. Unless... oh g-d." Mark put down the cookie. "Did I move too fast for you? Did you not want it? Oh g-d, why didn't you tell me? I would have stopped..."

"No, no, I wanted it. I... I just wish I had had the presence of mind to... do things to you like you did to me."

"Roger..." Mark leaned over and kissed him several times. Roger said nothing. He blushed and lowered his half-closed eyes, unable to keep from smiling at the rain of kisses. "Don't worry about that. There's always next time."

Roger felt better. Less like a stupid virgin. "Thanks, Mark."

Mark couldn't help but tease. "But you know, if you want instruction so you can feel better prepared for the next time we have a good romp, there are these workshops that are being held..."

Roger laughed. "Try the fuckin' cookie."

Mark did and immediately scrunched his face. He forcefully swallowed and repressed a regurgitative spasm. "They're peanut butter cookies!"

"Some of them are." Roger did not know exactly what he had done wrong. Was Mark allergic to peanut butter? _Oh, no… _"Some of them are macadamia nut..."

Mark tried to forget the horrible taste in his mouth and inquired about the rest of the cookies. "Do any have banana in them? Coconut? Honey? Ginger?"

"No... macadamia nuts, two kinds of chocolate chip, maple sugar, normal sugar, flour..."

Mark picked up the other type of cookie, setting the peanut butter one down. "Remind me to make you a list of all the foods I don't like." He laughed and ate this cookie happily.

Roger shook his head. "Picky," he said, chomping into a cookie of his own. "I still love cookies... I'm such a kid, it's pathetic."

"Not picky. I just know what I like and what I don't."

Roger couldn't help but wonder, "Which list am I on?"

Mark licked his lips. "Mm, definitely under 'favorite dish'."

Roger shivered and took another bite of his cookie. "So, what kind of cookies do you like?" he asked, desperate to think of anything but the stirring in his groin.

Luckily, Mark's taste was specific and complicated enough to distract him entirely from Roger's uncontrolled libido. "Um.. that's a tough one. Cookies that are too sweet or too dry I won't eat. Chocolate cookies are a safe bet. I'm not a big cookie eater." Mark admitted, sheepishsly.

"Sorry." Roger felt somewhat miserable. He had wanted to make their date perfect, after how well last time went. Yet he had gone and cooked something Mark wouldn't even eat. _Idiot. You tried to rush things, and look what happened!_ "I guess... I dunno. I guess I'm clinging to my childhood or... trying to do it right or something. I don't want to harp on or anything, I mean, if I'm boring you, you'll say, right?"

"Roger! Really, I'm having a great time. You're not boring me and these cookies rock." Mark moved to straddle Roger. "What can I do to persuade you?"

Roger's throat tautened. He forced himself to focus on the question and shrugged. "I guess I just assume... I mean, since you don't ask about my past I assume you'd rather not... this is bad. This is a bad time to say it. I was... purely negligent not to say so earlier, but I have baggage."

Mark laughed. "Yeah, you and the rest of the world. Roger, I don't ask because I assume you only say as much as you want to say. I am, well I thought I was, respecting your wishes and your pace to reveal yourself to me."

"I guess I'm... needy. Sorry. Oh, Christ." Roger pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes. He sobbed dryly, then shook his head and brought his face up. He was not crying. "Sorry. It's a perfect day... let's just... eat. There's stuff other than cookies. These aren't as good, they're bastardized croissants, you know, those French things. They puffed up but the shapes are weird. They have chocolate in them... do you like chocolate, or is that on the 'evil' list?"

Mark simply stared at Roger, sad that Roger was having a hard time enjoying himself in his presence. _Is that how I make you feel? Nervous and uncomfortable? _Mark shifted on Roger's lap and tentatively leaned forward to plant a slow and gentle kiss on his lips, desperately hoping he could do something right to calm Roger.

Roger didn't move, just let instinct take over. He hugged Mark, which he enjoyed, and fought off the urge to cry. He glanced up at Bethesda. "It's her fucking fault," he muttered. "I always let myself just be around Beth and... sometimes who I am isn't very nice. I'm sorry, Mark. This won't happen again, I promise."

Mark shook his head. "Stop." He trailed one fingertip along Roger's jawline, making Roger tremble with a nauseous mix of nerves, self-loathing and arousal. "Stop apologizing. You don't have to apologize for everything, Roger. You have every right to be who you are. Don't feel that you have to be someone else around me."

_I can't be myself. You wouldn't love me._ "Do you like who you are, Mark?" It was a question, not a challenge.

Mark, unfortunately, read that as a challenge. "Not always," he said defensively. "But I always try to stay true to myself."

Roger picked at a loose thread on his jeans. "I love you. A lot. I... feel like I've really fucked up today, it's... I had a fight with my... grandmother and... I'm sorry. I've never been in a relationship like this, it's just... I love you. Can we start the date over? We're meeting here, we've just seen each other... can we pretend, Mark?"

"Okay. I can do that." _Whatever will shake this mood off you._ "We've just met, then, huh? Well then, hello stranger," Mark purred.

"Hey. Did anyone ever tell you that your ass looks fabulous in those pants?" Roger nipped Mark's neck.

"A few, actually." Mark grinned and pressed closer to Roger.

"You really do have a spectacular ass," Roger said. "I mean… wow." He patted the area in question.

Mark blushed and slipped the tips of his fingers under the hem of Roger's pants. "From what I've seen, yours is better…"

Roger laughed and shivered and tried to ignore how hot he felt despite the cold. "Hey, it's better than it was a week ago..." he snickered. "I couldn't sit down!"

Mark smirked and nibbled on his ear. "Tell me it was worth it."

"Worth it? Worth it. Whenever, wherever you want, I'm yours! ...sorry. Was that too fast? It's not just sex, Mark. I mean, the sex is great, but it's you I love."

"Roger, it's fine." Mark sighed. "Just enjoy yourself?" Mark felt horrible but at the way this date was playing out, he had started to wish he was back home.

Roger knew this wasn't going well and tried to bring things back up. "Okay. Cookie? Careful, some of them are peanut butter! Man... I used to eat so much peanut butter, but then... I can only eat it cooked now, 'cause I once threw up almost entirely peanut butter." He laughed at himself. "Um, that's... not exactly what I meant to say."

Mark laughed. "When I was a kid, my mom used to pack my lunch. One year in elementary, she packed me peanut butter sandwiches for a year straight. So now I can't stand the stuff."

"Overdose. I remember leaning out the car window when we were moving, and... it's the strangest thing. Do you want to hear a weird-childhood story?"

"Yes. I do."

"Okay. So my mother and I left Los Angeles when I was eight and we moved, and we were supposed to go all the way out to New York. But halfway there... I mean, we were a mess. I hadn't eaten in days, then I got a tub of peanut butter and ate the entire thing and I just started puking it up, so badly Mom had to stop the car and take me to the hospital to make sure I was okay. And that's why we lived in Taos with her first boyfriend after my dad. Because I ate too much peanut butter."

Mark laughed. "And you can still eat the stuff? Grooooss," he moaned, tossing his head for emphasis.

"Yeah, I know, that's kind of funny. But, when I got older, about fifteen or so and I figured out what actually happened in Taos, I mean remembered more than just being the boy in the photo who stands at the edge of a desert wearing nothing but khaki shorts--very safari--I kind of... I don't know, took revenge? I started eating it again and now I'm hooked."

"I get really random urges to eat peanut butter, I'll admit. Same thing with bananas. But I generally can't stand peanut butter. Especially the crunchy kind."

Roger nodded. "I agree. Mostly because the crunchy kind reminds me too much of puking. I like peanuts, though. And butter, on toast and noodles and things."

"Do you like peanut butter on toast?"

"No. Or cheese. I hate melted cheese on toast, though I like cheese. How about you?" Roger felt a little better. This was going okay--and, surprisingly, because he talked about his past instead of holding back.

"Cheese is great. Cheese on toast is, too."

"Ugh. Not for me. Haha, one time when I was a kid, I tried to eat bone marrow."

"How did you manage that?"

Roger blushed and picked at the loose thread on his jeans. "I... didn't," he admitted. "I tried. I... it was in Taos. I found this bone in the desert and I had seen this documentary on television about our ancestors eating marrow and I thought it seemed neat. Didn't you do stupid stuff as a kid?"

"I was actually really picky about what went into my mouth and what didn't." Mark laughed. "I didn't even like to play in the sandbox with other kids."

"Yeah, well, sandboxes are full of piss and other kids are dirtbags, if you have a childhood anything like mine."

"That's exactly why I hated sandboxes. I never played with dirt, or mud, and I never liked insects."

"Really? There goes my image. I saw you in the science museum, looking at really big bugs. Dead and pinned, but bugs."

"Ugh, no way! In 10th grade I had to dissect a worm and I nearly threw up."

"You don't usurp my status as Vomit King," Roger said, mock-competitive.

"Definitely not. You won that title, hands down. I was a violent kid, though. I chased down a girl on a tricycle."

Explaining the title, Roger said, "My mom used to call me that to tease me to her boyfriend in Taos. Then I puked all over some important stuff. She had such a fit... I liked the name after that. So, a trike, huh? What'd she do to you? And what'd you do to her?"

"I don't remember. But I do remember thinking it'd be excellent revenge. I hit her with the tricycle. She fell, she cried, I was "benched"--" Mark's fingers drew quotation marks in the air "--and banned from using tricycles without adult supervision."

Roger couldn't help it: he laughed. "Excellent. I think I would've liked you when we were kids. I was a bully, but I cried all the time. Not in public, only in private. I was labeled 'disturbed' pretty early on, and..." He shook his head and returned to the loose thread. _No more angsty emo bullshit,_ he scolded.

Mark laughed as well. "Yes, I think we could have gotten along pretty well. But you used to cry? Why?" He sidled close against Roger.

Roger frowned, not at Mark but at a distant past he knew he would never make peace with. "I was really unhappy. I mean... my dad died before we left L. A. and my mom never seemed to like me much after that, she... well, she made me take her maiden name and she... I dunno, I guess Dad was the one who wanted kids. He was great." Roger took a bite of cookie and immediately felt nauseous. "Mom..." and he shook his head.

"Mom..." Mark prompted.

"She used to yell at me if she caught me crying," Roger said. He blinked rapidly, _at sunlight glaring off the snow,_ he told himself, despite the heavy cover of clouds. "She would say mean things. And she didn't seem to give a crap how her boyfriends treated me, though my stepdad, he was okay. He evened her out a lot, too. But by that point, damage done, you know? I mean, I only fought because kids were nasty to me and I wanted them to stop. So I was having a shit time at school and a shit time at home and I... couldn't deal, you know?" Roger hoped Mark did know. The last thing he wanted was to be labeled a freak... again.

Mark nodded. "I'm sorry you had to go through that. I was mean for different reasons, reasons that were certainly not justifiable."

Roger shook his head. "Any shit that's been done to me, I've negated it with shit I've done to myself. How about you? Just angry? Dumbass parents? Don't feel like talking about it?"

"Well.." Mark looked away, suddenly interested on the cloth they sat on. It was a series of beach towels sewn together. He sat on the seam between blue sharks and green trees with a little red car at the bottom. "I'm going to sound like a total brat."

"No, you're not. I promise."

"When I was a kid, I was taught values and to be respectful and whatnot, but I also figured on my own how to be manipulative. How to always get my way and indirectly control those around me. I was kinda bossy. Hell, I still am. And that's exactly how I was at school. I was the assumed leader in all groups. I felt I had every right to be. I was smarter, I knew what was best for everybody, I knew how to control. I wasn't a tyrant, I didn't tell people what to do, but if I wanted something done, it had to get done. And if anyone ever got out of line... I'd get mad."

Roger grinned. "I think we would've been great friends," he said.

Mark blushed. "Maybe. But anyway, that's why I hit the girl with a tricycle. She threatened my power." Mark shook his head and laughed. "And I was only four!"

"Yeah, but she threatened you! And you triked her ass. No, I know I would've liked you. I wanted someone to boss me around."

Mark kissed Roger suddenly with a passionate force. "Do you still want that?"

Roger pulled Mark nearer and kissed him back. His hands groped for hold; one found Mark's shoulder, the other his hip. "Yes," Roger gasped between breathy kisses.

"I'm more than happy to oblige, you know."

Roger kissed Mark again. "Yes." It was all he could think to say.

Mark ground into Roger.

Roger shivered. His hips thrust without his telling them to. He waited for Mark to tell him what to do, eager to obey. He was eager to fuck and be fucked.

Mark moved his kisses from Roger's lips to his neck, grateful when Roger tilted his head back to offer more skin, more than a little aroused at the helpless moan raised from Roger's lips.

The pace twisted Roger in two. First the grind to get him jumping, and now kissing? His hand moved to his too-tight jeans.

Mark felt Roger's hands move and he pulled back, shaking his head. "Romp in the sheets, not in the streets." He gave Roger a meaningful look.

Roger's hands immediately clasped together, and he nodded._ Sorry, Marky_. "So... back to your place?" he asked, hoping he was not pushing his luck. Was Mark just teasing him?

"How fast can this be packed up?"

Roger scooped everything into the bag. It bulged, but closed. "That fast."

"Then let's go." Mark bit his lip when he found himself aroused. His plan to simply flirt had backfired and he was hot, his pants growing tighter by the second.

Mark and Roger were locked in a heated mass of fumbling fingers, fused lips and freeing buttons, when they tumbled into the apartment. A full laugh interrupted them. "Have a nice date, Mark?" Collins asked.

TO BE CONTINUED!

This is probably the longest chapter you'll get... but hey, it's pretty damn long! I tried to split it somwhere, but that didn't work well.

Next chapter: the date will end and you will learn a truth about Roger.

Please review?


	4. Date's Over

Disclaimer: It's Jonathan's. I'm just playing.

For a moment, Mark and Roger stood frozen, half-touching one another, caught with their buttons loosened before a very amused Thomas Collins.

"Oh my G-d." Roger blushed so fiercely he nearly caught fire. "I... should probably go... um... the cat and all..." he babbled, buttoning his shirt unevenly.

"And your parents. And don't forget school!" Collins rose and patted Roger on the back. "I'll show you out." The hand that had patted him restedover Roger's right shoulder blade and steadily pressured him towards the door.

Roger barely had a chance to say, "'Bye, Mark," and grab Mark's hand briefly before being shoved as politely as possible out of the loft. The feel of Mark's skin slipping against his tingled.

Collins closed the loft door behind them to allow some privacy. "Boy, what do you think you're doing?" he asked. "I like you, you're a good kid. You have a good head on your shoulders, so use it! I've never seen Mark as happy as he's been these past few weeks he's been with you, but you're playing a dangerous game. You may be able to fool him, but you can't fool me." Collins folded his arms over his chest. "You need to be honest," he told Roger.

"I am honest. I love Mark." Roger never questioned that. He simply knew it. He also knew how to deflect blame-- of course, Collins was a lot smarter than most people Roger was used to deflecting blame from. He tried not to grit his teeth. An acute consciousness of his arms swept through Roger. He tried to keep them loose, tried not to think about it.

"I'm sure what you feel for Mark is genuine. Roger, think about it. How would you prefer it? If you came clean or if he found out on his own?"

"I don't know what you're talking about." Denial, yet another tactic to use when deflection fails. Roger refused to admit that he was starting to see Collins' perspective on this. If Mark found out-- no. Mark would never find out. If he found out, it would be over, so he would not, could not find out. Roger subtly sucked in a deep breath.

"Roger..." Collins sighed. "I'm not going to tell Mark anything. It's not my place to do so." Roger did not, and stubbornly would not, admit anything. Collins could only hope that Roger would be more cooperative when he realized that Collins himself was a friend. "However, I just want to warn you that you're going the right way to destroying what could be potentially the best thing that's ever happened to you. Mark really cares for you and I'll be damned if you hurt him." _It's as much about him as it is about you. Realize that, Roger._ "Be smart, and don't go taking extra steps with Mark if you're not completely in the clear. It's only going to count against you when he finds out."

Roger insisted, "There's nothing to find out. I don't know what you're talking about. Can I--"

"You're not 21," Collins interrupted.

"Not for another few months, no," Roger admitted. "I have to--" He moved to leave, but Collins stayed him with a firm grip on his shoulder.

"Not for another few _years_."

"This June. I'll be 21 this June." _Dammit._ Roger didn't know why his heart was pounding like this. As long as he showed no signs of fear, Collins has no evidence against him.

"Prove it. Let me see your school ID." Collins hated to do this to Roger, but he wanted Roger to realize what he was doing. Mark was not a toy.

"I don't _have_ a school ID. I'm not in school, okay? I'm not proud of that, but..."

"Roger, I'm not playing around. Hand over any form of identification or I automatically assume you guilty. If you're really as old as you say you are, you shouldn't be hesitant in the slightest."

Roger sighed. "Look... I don't..." But he knew when he had lost. Roger dug out a school ID, handed it over and stared at the floor. There goes the only good time he's had since moving to the fucking city.

Reading the plastic identification card in his hand, Collins couldn't help but chuckle. "My guess was right on the money, wasn't it? 17..."

Roger nodded. "Yeah. Seventeen. You're a real fuckin' genius now can I have that back? I have a... fucking library fine." Collins snickered. "Yeah," Roger drawled angrily.

"Roger. I'm not going to tell Mark. I want you to tell him. You need to tell him before he finds out himself." Collins handed over the ID, feeling bad that he's doing this to Roger. He really did like him-- so did Mark. Both wanted to keep Roger around, each for their own reasons, and Collins had certainly not meant to isolate the boy, but he feared it was damage done.

"I can't do that. It doesn't matter, it's just superficiality and in a few months, I'm 18, I can cast it off, move out and decide for myself."

"Roger, can't you see the big picture?" _Can't you shake off your teenage egotism? _"When he finds out, he's going to know he was involved with a minor. He's going to know you lied to him. He's going to doubt you. It could destroy your whole relationship."

"He'll only find out if you tell him. And could you really do that? Make him hate himself, make him a criminal?" Roger knew he was being a real little bastard. He was hardly controlling himself, just acting.

"You're being selfish," Collins told him, surprised at the anger and coldness of his own voice. Roger truly disgusted him in that moment, in his inability to see beyond the lies he told himself to the man he-- Collins believed-- loved. "And a real fuck. His feelings in this matter are just as important as yours. He deserves to know the truth; deserves to love you for who you are, not who you're making yourself out to be." Collins didn't know how else to get through to Roger, so he just shook his head. "Just go home, Roger. Think about it. I won't tell Mark anything, you have my word."

"Look... ok, you're... you're gonna hate me for this, but I figure you already do." Roger swallowed a knot of nervous bile. "So I'm gonna ask. How did you know?"

Collins stared at Roger for a long second before responding, "I don't hate you. Now go home." And before Roger could say more, Collins went back into the loft, leaving Roger in the hall to do as he chose.

TO BE CONTINUED!

Reviews would be better than a naked Roger in my bed. Well, okay, not that good, but you know what I mean.


	5. Happy Ending

Disclaimer: It all belongs to Jonathan Larson. I'm just playing.

WARNING: SEX! In this chapter, the Boho boys "do it".

One of the biggest disadvantages to unemployment, Mark found, was that he had no reason to leave the house. If he wanted to stay home all day, staring at the telephone and wishing his boyfriend would call him, he could. For the first few days, he did, all the while wondering what had happened to scare Roger off. The date had not gone well, Mark knew that, but there had been some passion, some fusion, and then--

"If you don't get out of the house today, I'll disconnect the phone," Collins threatened.

Mark turned to him. "What did you say to him?" he asked.

"Why do you assume it's something I said?" Collins asked lightly. _You're obsessed,_ he thought, amused.

_Because otherwise it's something I did!_ The fact was acknowledged wordlessly by both men. "You kicked him out of the apartment," Mark said.

Collins nodded. "Just like I'm gonna kick _you_ out if you mope around all day. Just for a few hours," he added. So Mark got out and filmed. Collins suggested he find a job, but Mark didn't. Being out those few hours was enough, and not finding Roger's voice awaiting him on the answering machine was worse.

Ten days passed before Roger called again, and he sounded like hell on the answering machine: "Hey, it's Roger. Listen, I'm sorry I haven't called..."

Mark was curled up on the couch trying to focus on the book Collins had leant him, but if anyone asked, he would not even be able to give the title. He looked up and debated picking up. Instead he listened for Roger's excuse.

"I was sick. I can... hell, I can bring the hospital papers by if you don't believe me. Um, or I can just... fuck off and die. Give me a cue, huh?"

"Holy shit," Mark swore as he stumbled off the couch and picked up the phone. "Holy hell, baby, are you okay?" _What the hell happened?_ he wanted to asked. _Why were you in the hospital? Are you okay now? Tell me everything._ He forced himself to hold back.

Roger breathed a sigh of relief. _He's not angry._ "Yeah. I'm a lot better now, thank you, I... I thought you'd be pretty pissed."

"No, no… I thought you were mad at me or something. Or at Collins, I don't know." _Does it matter? What's wrong, dammit!_ "Oh g-d, Roger, can I go visit you or something?"

"No, I'm out now, they released me... day before yesterday? I'm still pretty sick, I don't want to infect you guys, but I had to talk to you."

"What happened to you?" Mark was clutching the phone tightly, trying not to freak out. His baby was in the hospital and no one would tell him anything. Frustration boiled behind his eyes.

Roger took a deep breath. "I... I did something stupid, and... I woke up in the hospital. Just pneumonia."

"Just pneumonia!" Mark repeated. His fingers twisted around the receiver. "Oh g-d, tell me you're in bed right now."

"Uh... no. The phone isn't next to my bed. I'm in the hallway."

"Okay." He took a deep breath. "Roger, I appreciate you calling me, I'm really glad you did, but right now I'd rather you be in bed resting. Please, I don't want you to have to go back to the hospital."

Roger rolled his eyes. "I'm much better," he said. "I'm still showing symptoms--" All right, he was still tired and had a light fever and, yes, he hadn't been eating enough, but that would worry Mark. The last thing Roger wanted was to upset Mark in any way. "--but really I think moving around is best. Anyway, how are you?"

"Worried. Wishing you'd listen to me and rest." Mark sighed. "Also missing you. Wishing you were here. Imagining our last date ended... differently."

Sarcasm flared in Roger's mind: _Oh, you don't know._ "I miss you, too. That's why I called. I thought you must be pretty upset with me, since you didn't know, and now... well, I can't exactly go out for another few days, but we can re-do the date--properly. Without Beth and with the happy ending. I promise."

Mark smiled into the phone. "Yeah. Yeah, that sounds great. Now please, please rest. I'm worried for you."

Roger didn't want to hang up. Grudging it, "All right. I'll write you a letter, then, and call again when I can. 'Bye, Mark."

"Bye."

Roger hung up and trudged back to bed. He expected not to be able to sleep, too busy thinking about Mark and what they would do next time, but within seconds of pulling the covers over his body Roger felt his eyelids close and his breathing deepen. He fell asleep before two minutes were up.

---

ROGER

When I next called, the first thing Mark asked was, "Are you better?"

I laughed. "Yes, Mama," I replied sarcastically. Actually my own mother had been less concerned for my health than Mark-- once I was out of the hospital, she only kissed my forehead each morning and told me if she thought I was still feverish. Having someone actually care filled my belly with a warm feeling of comfort. It meant so much to, his concern. I nearly wept.

But guys don't do things like that.

"Completely?" Mark persisted.

"Completely," I affirmed with a nod Mark could not see. I clutched the telephone tightly. "I want to see you again."

"Come over tomorrow," he said. It was a Saturday.

"Do you have anything in mind that you want to do?" I asked.

_You…_ "Just be on time," Mark said. "Six o'clock?"

"Six," I agreed. "Hey, Mark… let me cook for you." _You don't eat enough. I can tell. You're too skinny._ "No peanut butter," I promised, "very romantic."

"Here at the loft? Um, okay. And that's six o'clock sharp!" he teased.

At 5:52, Mark was lounging on the couch once more not reading the Sartre Collins had leant him. In his mind, I was over-- or, more accurately, _under_, on the couch, panting Mark's name, and Mark… "Mark!" A shout broke from his dream and infiltrated his consciousness. "Ma-ark! It's Roger!"

Mark climbed out onto the fire escape and immediately broke into a grin. "Impostor!" he called down. "Roger Davis is _never_ on time!"

I laughed and held aloft a tupperware container. "I brought your dinner!" Mark blew me a kiss and tossed down the keys. In a matter of seconds I was in the loft, pressing my lips hard against Mark's. All the missing we had done in the past two weeks flared behind that kiss, twining our fingers in one another's fingers and hair and belt loops. When we broke apart, I gasped, "I missed you."

Mark pecked my cheek, almost platonically. "I missed you, too," he said. "You can go ahead and use anything in the kitchen."

I couldn't help but raise my eyebrows---wish I could raise one, but alas!--and say, "Would you mind going in the kitchen for me, Mark?"

Slightly perplexed, Mark walked into the kitchen and planted his feet firmly. I kissed him, long and hard, holding him tight against me, ruffling his hair with one hand. "You said," I told him after the kiss, "that I can use anything in the kitchen..."

He laughed. "I meant it," he said, planting a kiss on my lips, "so make use of it while you still hold this freedom."

Jeez. Mark, in my arms, kissing me... do I really want anything more? Well, sex, yeah, but I was not terribly horny right then. I was a little too hungry to be horny, but no way was I releasing Mark until he told me to. I kissed him again and if I knew how, I would have stuck my tongue in his mouth. Instead I sucked his lip as I pulled away. Hm. He had been drinking orange juice.

Mark sighed. He had a goofy smile on his face as he hopped up onto the counter and sat there, watching me explore the kitchen. "What are you going to make?"

I find a big pot (also a big stash of pot, probably Collins' if I dared hazard a guess) and poured out the contents of my Tupperware. "It's Irish stew," I told Mark. "It's... have you ever had it?" I took out another Tupperware and drained the water into the sink as the stew heated.

Mark shook his head. "Nuh-uh. Never even heard of it till now."

"Well, it's... it's the same basis as most British foods. I'm sort of a history nerd. In my sophomore class, I used to... well, I just loved it." _That's okay, right? I don't sound too close to it, do I?_ "Anyway, British foods always have an emphasis on starches--like Yorkshire pudding, shepherd's pie, that kind of thing. Do you cook a lot?" He certainly did not seem to, but I said nothing, lest it offend him.

"I'm afraid I don't.'"

I had to stand on tiptoe to peck his cheek. "Good thing you met me, then. I love cooking. And, wow, I love having someone to cook for!" Which is my way of saying I love you.

"It's a good thing you're good at cooking," he said, "or else I'd have to force feed myself to keep you happy." After the cookie fiasco, it was a relief to hear. I shot him a quick smile, but just as I was moving away to return to the stew, Mark threaded a hand through my hair and guided me in for another kiss. He certainly did not hurt me, but he was stern-- Mark would have that kiss. Bolts of heat tingled in my limbs. I wanted him.

But he released me, so I withdrew. "You make me happy. The you-ness of you." Have I mentioned that I love Dr. Seuss? "Oh--my stew's boiling." I jumped over, added thyme from a little canister I brought, added the potatoes, stirred, covered, simmered. "Ok, so that simmers for about an hour now. How can we occupy ourselves for an hour? Hmm..."

Mark wondered aloud, "Oh whatever will we do to pass the time away?"

I couldn't help myself: I pulled Mark into a kiss, not a chaste kiss at all, pressing my lips hard against him and doing things, hopefully the right things, with my tongue. _Oh, G-d, Mark, I want you!_

Mark moaned. "Roger, I want you."

"Here or the bedroom?' I asked quickly. I really wanted to unbutton his fly and start sucking, but if that wasn't what he wants, or if he only likes it in bed--whatever he wanted, I was willing.

He kissed me again, hot kisses spiking a fever in my groin. "Don't care, just want you now," he responded while planting kisses down my jawline. He slid slowly off the counter, ultimately landing softly on his feet and pressing himself against me.

I nodded slowly, trying to work within his kisses, opened my mouth to his while my fingers fumbled blindly with his fly. We were so tight against one another I could barely move my fingers, but... aah. And I slid down to my knees.

His fingers found my short hair again as I took him in my mouth.

I had never done this before. I wanted to tell Mark that _I'm sorry if I'm not good_, but instead I just began. I didn't take all of him in my mouth, but apparently it was enough because after a couple moments' sucking and teasing with my tongue, Mark was getting hard.

He moaned. His hands tugged at my hair, knuckles pressing into my scalp, enjoying the way my tongue and cheeks pressured him gently. My mouth was warm and wet and soft, and Mark shivered before thrusting into me. I welcomed him, moaning in my muffled way as I continued to bring him harder. I raised my hands and slid them up Mark's shirt. I touched his nipples before my hands come to rest, wrapped gently along his sides, holding onto him as he holds on to me. I turned my head and pressed closer, letting him have as much of me for his as he pleased, and he pleased!

Mark moaned. I continued sucking. He thrust again, repeatedly, bringing his pelvis into my face until he came into my throat.

Mark panted and pulled his hands from my hair to lean heavily on the counter. "Oh G-d… Roger…"

I didn't know what he wanted me to do, but he released me which I took as a cue to take him out of my mouth. I swallowed as I buttoned up his pants; it was too deep to bother spitting. _Oh, G-d, I hope he liked it! He sounds like he liked it_. I liked hearing him say my name in that breathless whimper.

About the time his breathing evened, he blushed. "Y-you didn't have to swallow it, Roger."

It was not that big a deal. I mean, it was just so deep already, and I didn't really mind. I just shrugged and said, "It doesn't matter." I liked giving him a blowjob. I hadn't expected to enjoy sucking dick, but the tug at my hair, the moans of my name, they made me more than a little hot.

"Um, Mark, would you..." I tried not to glance down. How do you ask someone something like this? "Could you..." _give me an orgasm?_ "...do something to me? Just... I mean... touch me or, or something?"

Mark groaned. "I want to fuck you," he said.

I didn't need a second to think about it. I nodded. "Yes." I wanted him inside me. I may have been young, but I was ready. I felt it. I was ready for this.

"Bed."

_This guy's really dominant. I wonder if he's the same with women..._ I assumed he had been with women because of what he said last time. _Is it just men? Just me? I could be too much a Severin, maybe that's why... _but I liked it. When he ordered me into his room, I felt a rush of blood to the groin.

In Mark's room, I took off my jeans and began folding them.

He pushed me down onto the bed, growling, "Fold them later." For a moment, before I obeyed and lay down, I felt him hard against me and I groaned. I wanted him so badly it hurt.

I blinked. It was insane how hot this was making me. I rolled onto my stomach and hiked up my shirt so it didn't get in the way of anything. This is how pandas have sex. I mean, the woman does this thing called 'presenting'-- squashing my dorkiness, I tried to think of something to say, but there were no words. Some poet I am...

He asked me what I wanted; is that a normal question when someone's stretched naked on your bed? I responded as such. Mark snickered, assuming I was joking which I half was.

He pushed his fingers into me a little less than gently, a little more urgently than lovingly. I wasn't expecting that, and I gasped. That felt good. "Do that again," I muttered. Mark slipped in another finger. "Oh my G-d. Please." I could feel my stomach heaving with each breath. I needed him. "Oh, G-d, Mark, please."

Mark paused. His fingers ware inside me, but they didn't move, and it took every ounce of will I possessed not to thrust up against him. "Please what?" he asked.

_Oh, dominating. Okay, I think I get his kink now_. "Please..." I didn't want to say fuck, but sodomize is too formal. I settled on the archaic, "...take me." And he did. He was bigger than I remembered.

He was acting on passion and he didn't treat me badly, just a little roughly. He was in so far that his hips ware pressed up against my bottom, and Jesus, Mary and Joseph it hurt so good I wanted to cry. I imagined I felt him against the skin of my belly as he thrust. A couple of times it was just motion inside me, then he hit the right spot and I cried out. My skin arched and tingled; _I want him, I want him! I'm hard and I'm Sisyphus, inching closer but I have no control, it's Mark, and I realize my metaphor is faulty. I'm the boulder and he is Sisyphus, Sisyphus thrusting inside me and there are lulls when he doesn't quite hit right for three or four thrusts, a torture of empty motion inside me…_

My chest was tight. I couldn't make my lips form any word but his name, and the words 'please' and 'yes'.

_Is he intentionally making me wait? I want to come, this is sooo good I want him to take me higher, harder, faster, Mark, please, please, don't stop, please, Mark, please, please... oh. Oh. Oh! Almost, almost, I can feel it, I can feel dynamite in my gut, oh, Mark, ouch, Jesus Christ, I've never felt... _was it like this last time? Was he this big, this hard, this rough? It was a burst of pure glory as he tore me up inside, and it was the pain that makes this so good I could hardly breathe, and then it's--

"Mark! Ma-ark..." His name sounded like a sob because I couldn't catch my breath. I came and my eyes shut and, oh, G-d, I lay still while he finished on top of me, and it was so good I think I was crying. _Don't stop. It's beginning to hurt as he rolls off of me, but I don't want him to stop, not yet, not ever._

MARK

After a long while of lying together, each feeling the heat rolling off the other, I cleared my throat and asked, "Are you okay?" I wanted to ask him if he enjoyed it, but my pride wouldn't allow me to. I looked over at him and it hit me: another hot wave. _Fuck, I can't possibly want it again, can I? _I closed my eyes and tried to think of something else. Anything else. Like... the starving, AIDS-ridden children of Africa.

"Yeah," he told me. "You're... wow." And he chuckled breathlessly.

Not helping! I groaned and turned away, repressing an urge to pull him into my arms and beg him to sate me, to fuck me like I just did him.

Roger rested a hand on my shoulder. "You okay, baby?"

"I'm… fine," I breathed out as I slowly slipped my hand southwards. I didn't want to come off as some really needy, really horny boyfriend. I'd rather take care of it myself.

Roger's fingers trailed down my chest, following the soft fuzz into my groin. "If I make you hard," he asked quietly, "would you want to... to... do that again?"

Without thinking, I found myself nodding vigorously, answering him without a second thought. "Only if you promise we can switch roles."

"Um... I've never... If you're sure," he said.

I nodded again. "I would really like that."

"Okay." He withdrew his hand and I felt the brush of his arm as he began to stroke himself.

ROGER

Just as I was beginning to rise, there was a loud ringing in my ears and oh! It's the timer. A sigh escaped my lips before I could stop it. I wouldn't have minded giving Mark what he wanted, but I felt so worn out. I needed a break.

I fumbled with my jeans, my arms limp as spaghetti noodles, clumsy fingers slipping with the buttons, but I was finally dressed and I wandered into the kitchen.

By the time Mark arrived, I was busy mixing the last herbs into the stew. I overcooked it perfectly. I always overcooked it, let the potatoes lose their essence and become a sort of delicious potato-y mush that's hot and feels good on the throat. "Hungry?" I asked Mark. I was. I didn't realize how hungry I was!

Mark's stomach growled before he has a chance to respond. He blushed and nodded. "Yeah, I am."

I found the utensils and bowls. He could hadve been a bit more helpful here! "Do you have a ladle?" I asked. Mark just shrugged. "...you don't know?" _How can he not know? He lives here!_ "Um, okay." I dug through a few more drawers. "Why are there condoms in here?" I asked. The ladle was in the next drawer. I doled out dinner, enjoying the vapors that settled on my face.

Mark didn't take the bowl when I offered it. He was playing some game that I didn't completely understand, so I just set the bowls on the table, set the spoons beside them, and sat. I didn't eat, though. I was waiting for him. He joined me, before sitting down commenting, "Next time you should wear an apron."

I spooned up a bite of stew. I didn't eat it, still waiting. I may have been a misfit, a bad son, a failure, but I had good manners, dammit! I smiled. "You really make me want to analyze gender roles in the gay community," I told him. I glanced at my jeans and wondered, "You meant instead, didn't you?"

Mark just smiled and tasted the stew. "This is really good."

He did mean instead!

"Thanks." I thought of all the things I like to cook, all the things I wanted to cook for him, and suddenly realized--"I bet I could make you hot with my cooking." I was thinking of a very strong drug, one no one even knows is a drug. I was thinking of chocolate.

Mark sputtered, "Y-you can what?"

"Make you hot," I repeated. I could, too. I was thinking me, topless (not naked, lest I should make cum-and-chocolate candies), the usual streaks of raw ingredient-- melted bitter and semi-sweet chocolate slashed across my chest and my arms, and Mark licking… I shivered with a sudden desire to feel his tongue on me.

"How?" Mark asked.

And liked that, having the upper hand. If I hadn't grown inhibitions from our _Venus in Furs_ unit, I might have smirked. I didn't gloat, I flirted. "Invite me back," I told him, "and I'll show you." Mark smiled and went on eating. I grinned. I was definitely going to be invited back. And I was eating, feeling much less exhausted, though still a little sore back there. "I love you," I told him casually, then filled my mouth with stew. And I really meant it.

MARK

Our dinner was filled with an easygoing conversation and I was glad it wasn't forced at all. We were falling into a comfortable state of just being around each other and I loved every moment. As soon as we both finished our stew, Roger immediately whisked away the bowls.

"That was really good, Roger." I began to stand up, thinking dinner was over and ready to help him wash up. He was a guest, after all!

"Sit," Roger said from the kitchen. :Dinner's not over yet." I complied.

He set a plate in the middle of the table, a plate piled with… "Red cupcakes?"

He nodded. "Red velvet cupcakes," he said, then a look of vague horror crossed his face. "You... don't like them?"

I smiled. "There's a first time for everything," I told him and I took a bite. It's weird to have someone stare at you when you're eating, so I made a point to avert his gaze. The cupcakes ware moist and just slightly crumbly. Roger was watching me out of the corner of his eyes, and good G-d... _this boy works miracles in the kitchen._ "These are really good, Roger."

He grinned. "Thanks."

This date was quickly turning out to be one of my favorites, I mentally decided as Roger initiated another kissing session. We'd slowly traveled to the couch to sit and chat and digest, but I guess he was done digesting, and for that matter, so was I.

"Do you still want me to...?" he asked, his hand hovering above my fly.

"Only if you're willing to."

ROGER

_Well, I've had some really kinky thoughts over the course of the meal, but..._ "Um, the only thing is, I didn't bring any condoms." _Because I don't own any._

"There's some in the kitchen," he said before pulling me in for another kiss.

_I know this is awkward, but,_ "Please tell me they're your condoms." _Because I think your roommate just might kill me._

Mark paused. After a few seconds I knew I wouldn't like the answer. "No, they're not."

"Uh... I'm not comfortable with that," I told him. "I'm sorry. Um, we...we can still... if you don't mind that I'm not wearing one." It's not like he wore one in me.

"There's lube in the bedroom. All I ask is that you use something."

Okay, I can do that. And since he had done it twice to me, I knew how to use it. I slid off the couch and scooped Mark into my arms. He was a bit heavy for such a scrawny thing, but I had done weight training at school. I carried him into the bedroom and set him down on the bed, where he immediately began to unbutton his pants.

"It's in the first drawer," he informed me.

By the time I found it, Mark had stripped himself and-- _oooh, G-d._ I thought I would have to touch myself, but no, I was hard just looking at him, all smooth, milky skin, and_, oh, G-d, I can't explain what's happening to me_. He was so pale, so… so beautifully curved. I swallowed and sat on the bed. I wanted to touch him, I needed to. I reached out, but lost my nerve. I stroked his thigh with three fingertips. It was not enough.

It was difficult to unbutton my jeans, thanks to my penis deciding to go erect before I wanted it to. "If I hurt you, say. I've never done this before," I reminded Mark.

He nodded. "I trust you."

I wouldn't trust me. I had never done anything like this. It was different. I felt responsible now. My nails weren't sharp-- I bit them-- but my fingers ware callused, and I wished there was a gentler way to lube up than sticking my fingers into Mark's ass. I only used one finger, afraid to hurt him. I wiped the excess onto my erection. "If you're not liking this--"

"Roger, I want it," Mark said.

I didn't know if this would be clumsy. What if I didn't put it in right? But then, there was only one way to go, and that's how I went in. I felt Mark move under me, and I wanted to ask if it was hurting him, but he moaned and there were no two ways about the sound he made. I kissed his shoulder. I thrust gently. I was not keen to do this, suddenly. I was hard, I wanted him, but... I made little circles with my hips.

"Roger… oh G-d, move," he begged.

_I don't want to... what if he doesn't like it?_ But he wanted me to. I thrust hard. Mark moaned loudly. "That's good…" Bolder, I thrust again, a healthy medium between my earlier shyness and my enthusiasm. I conjured my electronic metronome. Duple? Too fast. Triple? Too slow, made me think of a waltz. Quadruple it was, then, 12341234 and Mark was moaning and writhing, saying my name in a way that told me he definitely liked this. I kept the steady rhythm until it was lost and I rose to the treble clef, each heartbeat a chord, a thrust, a steadily increasing rhythm. My eyes began to roll and I knew I was close; he cried my name, gasping, and I thrust once more, harder, deeper; he gasped out an '"Oh!" Thrust again, again, moving my entire body with the rhythm and the pulsepulsepulse into him and oooh. I came. I barely have the energy to collapse on the bed next to him. My arms were trembling.

"Was... that good for you?" I asked Mark.

MARK

Ignoring the sharp pain that shot up when I moved, I rolled onto my side and pulled him into an embrace. It had been a while since I'd last been sodomized, and I had forgotten how good, and I suppose how painful, it could be. "It was really good," I told him. "You can do that to me any time." And I meant it.

Roger smiled. His chest heaved and he kissed me. His eyes told me that he was not ready to sleep yet. Exhausted, I pulled him in a bit closer so I could rest my head on his chest. If Roger wanted to talk after sex, I wouldn't know, I was fast asleep in seconds.

TO BE CONTINUED!

Reviews would be awesome! Not as good as Roger in my bed... or Mark... or Maureen... or Collins... you get the idea. Not as good as not sleeping alone at night, but definitely good!


	6. Heart to Heart, This Ain't

Disclaimer: They're not mine, I'm just playing with them.

Roger awoke before Mark. He had never before woken so close to someone, so warm and comfortable and completely naked. He was still pressed close against Mark's chest. Roger closed his eyes. His shoulders itched to stretch, but that meant leaving this moment, the warmth and closeness and the smell of Mark and sweat.

Mark mumbled and rolled away from Roger. That made the choice. Roger rose and dressed quietly. His shirt was thoroughly unwearable, defeated by a night of sodomy. It was stinking and stiff with sweat.

Roger tossed on his jeans and undershirt and wandered out.

Collins was already awake. "Um... hey," Roger mumbled. "Do you mind if I...?" and he pointed at the coffeepot.

"No, feel free." Collins was chewing over how to start the conversation this time. Nothing he said last time seemed to have impacted Roger's behavior at all. Collins sighed loudly and swirl the little bit of coffee left in his cup.

Now Roger knew how Mark felt when he was eating the cupcake. Collins watched him as he grabbed a mug and filled it with coffee. Roger was terrified of Collins. He just _knew_ things, private, personal things he had no way to know and no right to know. And Roger was afraid Collins would see the cat scratches on his arms and think... know... There are things in the soul of any seventeen-year-old boy, things no one has any right to know.

_I can't do this, I can't._ He headed back to Mark's room, his heart pounding.

"Roger." He looked over, visibly trembling. Collins patted the chair next to his. "Take a seat."

_Oh, no. Oh, no, oh, no, oh, no._ Roger sat, trying to focus on breathing. He was so nervous he did not dare try to drink the coffee, _breathe, try to relax. Not going so well!_ "Morning," he mumbled.

"Morning." Collins leaned forward and picked up a cupcake from a plate left on the table. "You make these?" At Roger's facial expression, he explained, "Mark doesn't really cook."

Roger nodded. _Yes, I am a ten-year-old girl at heart_. His cooking-pride won over, nerves eased enough for him to ask, "So, you like them? The cupcakes._" Oh, G-d, I just used the word cupcake! I'm a ten-year-old. Hm. I'm calm enough to drink my coffee now. Aaah, coffee and cupcake. An unbeatable combination._

"They're very good." He took a bite out of the cupcake and used this time to think of a way to open the subject he wanted to discuss. Of course, Collins knew what he wanted to say and Roger knew what he wanted to say, so how difficult could it be? _With any luck, he'll talk about it first… but that's highly unlikely._

Collins swallowed and took a sip of coffee to wash down the cupcake. It took a certain type of person to eat such pure sugar at his first hour of the day. "What do you think you're doing?" He started their last conversation like this, and he immediately felt that by starting the second talk like this, he had already sealed the ending to this as well, but at very least Roger knows what he's talking about.

"Eating breakfast?" There ware times when Roger could make himself look young enough to pull off the 'cheeky-but-adorable' thing. He didn't try that now, though, because it really wouldn't help any with Collins. But now he sounded like a surly teenager, so he continued, "You know, that's a neat word. Breakfast. Because it--"

"Roger." Roger fell silent. His eyes fell to his lap in an avert almost-apology. Collins sighed and glanced over at Mark's door. It was open. He got up and closed it softly, not wanting to risk Mark overhearing. Then he headed back to the table and sat down. "What do you think you're doing?" he repeated.

Roger didn't know what to say. How could he make him understand? _My age does not matter._ "I love him." It was the simple truth. It was all he had, all he could offer, and to Roger it meant the world, but he knew that to Collins it wouldn't be nearly enough.

"If you loved him, you'd be completely honest with him." It wasn't his age that bothered him. It was the fact that he kept that information from Mark. Mark was going to find out and it was going to matter, whether Roger believed it should or not.

_I can't really argue with him. He's right, isn't he? If I loved Mark, I wouldn't keep this from him. But if I tell him--I mean, we're at that point where whenever we're together, we just want to touch and (well, taste, for me) as long as I'm underage, he will be bothered by that._ Roger sighed and shook his head. "Things are perfect right now."

"Maybe that's what it looks like to you, but I see it differently." Their relationship might not survive, as much as they-- and Collins-- wanted it to.

Roger sighed. "In a few months, I'll... I'll be legally an adult. And then... it seems like that will be easier, but it won't, will it?" _Shit! Not only am I started to agree with him, I'm starting to confide in him._ Roger wanted to slap himself, hard. Actually, he wanted to...

He began picking at one of the scabs on his arm. And right now, he hated himself so much he just focused on the coffee mug and tried to disappear.

"Your best chance with him is to just tell him now. If he really loves you... he'll look past your age. I mean, what's age but a man-made measurement of time on Earth?" Collins drank more of his coffee, eyeing the scratches on Roger's arms. _Boy, you got one hell of a cat._ But he didn't say it. Enough was enough for one day.

_You live in this... creation. This world of pure logic untouched by human standards. And I wanted to live there, too. But I don't. And neither does Mark. _Roger couldn't say that, so he just drank some coffee and pressed his now bleeding arm to his jeans. _This is not turning out to be a very good day, which is my fault, which means... plainly, I am a bad person._ The thought eased Roger's breathing.

"You're a good kid. A liar, but a good kid." Collins laughed then was completely serious once more. "Still...I don't think you're not giving Mark enough credit. He won't reject you. Just be honest, and be yourself."

Roger closed his eyes, hard. _I am not going to cry, I'm not…_ but it was damn tough because the truth was that _himself_ was the last person Roger wanted to be. So he just said "Thank you" to the guy who just made him feel like a roach and wished he could invite Mark to his place and not have to talk to Collins, not be pulled back to the worthless little rat Roger knew he was, instead of the decent human being he became around Mark.

"No problem, man. I just want the best--morning, Mark."

Mark was standing at the door to his room, rubbing his eyes with one hand and pulling up his pants with the other. "Rog? When..." he yawned "…did you get up?"

"Uh..." _Christ._ Right then, he hated Collins, because he had this amazing ability to strip away any illusion of goodness Roger manage to slap on and make him feel... well, like this. And he did it in front of Mark. "Not that long ago. 'Morning." Roger found himself unable to raise his eyes.

"Mark, you never told me you two were official!" Collins laughed and patted the seat down next to him. Mark trudged over, still sleepy and yawning.

Roger was fairly certain Collins was glaring at him, so he just looked at his coffee. It's... it's funny stuff, coffee. He felt like such a moron. He felt like what he was, a little boy trying to play with the grown-ups. _Christ, this is worse than making Varsity sophomore year. And I had to wear braces then!_

Mark grabbed Roger's cup without as much as even asking and took a long sip before returning it.

"G-d, that's disgusting stuff. But at least I'm semi-awake now." He got up, intent on making himself some tea, and gave Roger a loud smack on the cheek before heading to the kitchen. Collins looked back at Roger. He was ready to make a sprint to the door, if he could just make himself _move_.

Roger had never been ashamed of what he was. Ever. He was queer and he accepted that. He felt as attracted to boys as he did to girls, and that to Roger was perfectly normal. This was the first time he had lowered his head to be kissed in front of anyone.

But he forced himself to cough up some false bravado and say, "I don't know how you live without coffee, Mark. Or honey in your tea!"

Mark laughed and responded, "That's what sugar's for, Roger. Oh, by the way, how long are you going to stay today?" Mark sounded like he wanted Roger to stay. Collins looked back at Roger and mouthed what he hoped he read as, Tell him.

Roger wanted to leave. He really did. "Oh, I don't want to impose," is the way he said so. "I'll be out of your hair soon." He would tell Mark. He would. But… the moment had to be right. After all, Mark was half-asleep and still riding a post-orgasm high. Surely _now_ would be the worst time to tell him.

Mark predictably responded, "You're not imposing! Right, Col?"

"Right. Stay a while, we can all get to know each other a bit more." _I have to admit, Roger's a fun kid to mess with._ "Maybe we can go drinking. You can pass off as 21, right? I'm friends with security, I'm sure they can forgive 4 years." Collins laughed and Mark rolled his eyes.

"For the last time, he is not--"

"Actually, you know what, I just remembered, I can't stay!" Roger stood, rushed behind the sink and started washing his coffee cup. "I need to get home, I completely forgot about the cat last night. She's probably tearing the paper off the walls. I'm really sorry..."

_The cat?_ Collins chuckled and watched as Mark pouts and hugs Roger from behind, planting kisses on the nape of Roger's neck. "Let your grandmother feed the cat..."

"Grandma can't work the can opener," he said. "She has really bad arthritis." This person really wasn't his grandma, she was his neighbor, but he did have a cat. "I'm sorry, Mark."

"Okay." Mark gave Roger one last kiss before heading back to the table, tea in hand.

Roger pulled his belongings together, though he left most of the food-- Mark and Collins didn't eat much, Roger knew, because of finances. Roger's shirt was completely unwearable. "Mark, do you think I could borrow a shirt? Mine's… um… not clean."

"Sure," he said. "Feel free to grab one."

"Thanks." Roger felt an almost sickening tingle of happiness as he picked up one of Mark's shirts. It was a little tight-- flexing his biceps might do a Hulk number on it. Nevertheless, it was Mark's shirt and wearing it made Roger's skin tingle. "Bye." He kissed Mark one final time, savoring the sickening morning taste of Mark. "I'll call."

When Roger was gone, Mark glared at Collins. "What?" Collins asked.

_Why does my boyfriend leave every time he talks to you?_

Mark shook his head. "Nothing."

TO BE CONTINUED!

hopefully soon, now that my internet's up again.

Please review?


	7. The Secrets of the Universe

Disclaimer: RENT is Jonathan Larson's. I am most respectfully playing with his characters, that's all.

Mark had been pacing all morning, throwing things around in spurts of hissy fit each time he tried to do anything. He made focusing quite difficult, and Mr. Beckett is not a simple man. "Are you all right, Mark?" Not insane? Nah, I knew he was insane, but he had got bugs under his skin and I knew why.

Mark paused mid-pace to glare at me. Rather than pretend there was nothing wrong, which he usually does, he snapped, "No, I'm not!"

"Well, is there something you'd like to say?" Jeez, this boy's a knacker and a half. He had to be backed into a corner and wheedled before he acknowledged the problem. I was already fairly sick of his tantrum.

"What the hell do you tell him?" he demanded. "It's like you scare him away! Why do you do that?"

I won't pretend that didn't hurt. But Mark needed to calm down before we could have a decent conversation, and the only way I saw was for him to angry himself out. "Who?" I asked.

"Roger! Who else?" Mark strode over to the couch and kicked it, as if to get my attention.

"Hey." I didn't bark at him, but I warned him. I would take a lot of his demented, selfish, angry bullshit, but I was not going to take violence, not from him. He could scream all he wanted. "What do you think, Mark?"

"'What do you think, Mark?'" he mocked. Anyone else, I would've clocked him. "Why do you think I asked? Because I don't know!" He huffed and crossed his arms, looking down at me.

_I should not do this. I gave Roger my word. Well, I won't tell him but I won't lie to him, either._ "Why do you think Roger leaves, Mark?" I asked, trying to remind him that I was his friend.

"You scare him off." He squirmed uncomfortably under my stare and he un-crossed and re-crossed his arms. Good. I was making him uncomfortable. It is much more difficult to maintain anger when uncomfortable. Discomfort demands analysis. "You don't like him," he accused.

"I like Roger. I think he's good for you. He's a good kid."

"Then why do you--"

"Mark, have you ever seen me do or say anything inappropriate to Roger?"

He hates it when I'm right. "No, I haven't."

I nodded. Damn right he hadn't. I liked the kid, I wasn't lying about that. "Well then why would you say something like that?"

He plopped down on the couch next to me and rubbed his temples, not bothering to answer my question. "Do you think it's me?" He glanced at me. "It's me, isn't it? Oh fuck, I don't know how to date properly..."

Whoops. I forgot: Mark's Jewish. I sighed. "Hey, c'mere." I hugged him. "It's not you. Roger loves you, Mark. And he's just as confused as you are, probably more, he just has his own life that he has to get back to."

Mark liked to say then that he "let" me hug him. Adorably insecure immaturity. He repeated his question, this time not accusing but seeking an answer, "So what _do_ you tell him?"

"I tell him the secrets of the universe," I replied, completely serious.

"Since when have the secrets of the universe been better than sex?" Mark whined.

_Better than sex?_ I knew Mark's jump should not have upset me. After all, he and Roger had taken that step and I knew that, but why was sex Mark's first thought? _He shouldn't be dating someone like Roger if-- aww, shit. _I'd gone soft on Roger. Hell, I always knew I liked the kid.

"You know, I don't think you're really ready for the Secrets of the Universe," I teased, "but I'll tell you one if you're sure you want to know."

"Well you've piqued my interest, so now you have to tell me."

I cleared the cups off the table, went to the sink and started washing, leaving Mark sitting alone and looking like a kicked puppy. "Relationships," I told him, "are about more than one person. I'm sure Roger loves your cock, Mark, but what he loves more is having someone to lie beside at night. I'm not calling your boy selfish, but he cherishes the fact that he's not alone."

Mark joined me, hoisting himself up to sit on the counter. "Well, no shit. I may know very little about relationships, but at least I knew that." He rolled his eyes.

I flicked dishwater at Mark. "You were never this petulant when you were my student," I told him. "Maybe you know it, maybe you don't know how important it is. Especially to someone like Roger."

"Has… has he talked to you about this?"

I shook my head. _I wish. But first he'll have to overcome his toxic fear of me. _"Mark, I don't really tell him the Secrets of the Universe. Roger doesn't trust me." Which was actually very sad for me, because I liked him very much and he had no idea what he was doing. It's hell for a teacher not to be able to teach, especially, G-d help it but I was (am), an idealist. "We chat, nothing important. Weather. Coffee. Cupcakes."

Mark scoffed. "Right. Cupcakes. Like you two could actually talk about cup--" He stopped and looked at me. "He doesn't trust you? Why?"

"Could you please be a little more paranoid?" I tossed Mark a dishtowel. "Here. You can dry. And yes, we talked about cupcakes. Roger made cupcakes, remember? They're red." _And sitting right in front of you._

Mark caught the towel and began drying the dishes. "'Course I remember. They were delicious."

"Well, there you are then. I told him his cupcakes were good. You've known me for years, Mark. Would I lie to you?" I'm joking of course, because the answer is yes. I once taught an entire class session, then turned around and told the class that I'd made up every damn word. _Question authority, children._ They were self-important Ivy Leaguers who took themselves far too seriously_. Now go forth and practice what you've learned today. Go forth. Get out!_

The answer comes easy enough, "Yes, you would."

"Exactly." The trick is to know when I'm lying. "Are you okay, Mark?" I asked, serious. "You in the singular and the plural." _I do care._ But then if he hadn't figured that out yet, he never would.

"Yeah, I'm… we're… fine. I think." He dried the last cup and tossed the dishtowel.

"Mark, you're a grown-up--" unlike Roger! "--so it's your call. You know I'm here if you want to talk."

"Yeah, yeah. I know you're here."

"So do you want to talk about it?"

"There's nothing wrong!"

Right…

TO BE CONTINUED!

Reviews would be awesome... please?


	8. Glad You Trust Me

Disclaimer: It's Jonathan's. I'm just playing.

Roger waited in the rain for the usual four rings before the machine answered, all the while sniffling and pushing away tears, though the rain drenched him so much it hardly mattered. _Fucking rain… fucking dark… doesn't much look like noon._ The machine picked up. "M-Mark?" Roger could barely stammer his name. Deep breath. "Mark, it's Roger. I'm... outside, and..." and it's cold and I'm getting soaked and I can't deal with this and please, Mark, please. Please.

"Roger?"

"Mark? C-could I come upstairs, please?"

"Oh god, baby, are you crying?" Mark asked. "You don't even have to ask, just come on up."

"I... I don't have a key."

"That's right. Okay, I'll throw them down." Mark hung up and went over to fire escape. He spotted Roger standing out on the pavement, shivering. "Rog!" He tossed down the keys. Roger missed the catch and as he scanned the sidewalk, Mark disappeared into the loft. _Coffee_, he decided, if only because Roger would not drink tea.

Roger tried to pull himself together on the way up the stairs, breathe, just breathe and try to keep himself sane. _Stop crying,_ he told himself. It didn't work. Mark stood at the door and Roger hugged him and started to cry. "Oh, G-d, I'm so sorry!"

Mark hugged him tightly and rubbed soothing circles on his back. He bit his lip. _What is going on? What if something awful has happened? Oh, G-d, what if his grandmother died? What if someone-- no._ No, that was too awful to even think. "Shh, baby. Tell me what's wrong...' Mark managed to slide the door closed and he led Roger to the couch.

Every breath trembled through Roger's body. He sat on the couch and Mark sat next to me, but he didn't hug Mark only because, _hell, who needs to be hugged by a soaking, hysterical kid?_ "I'm really sorry," Roger told him. "I just... needed to be somewhere safe, with someone... with you... I'm sorry. My… cat…" It sounded like a stupid explanation, a silly thing only a child would possibly cry over, but it was the truth. "She had... she was sick... and..."

Mark pulled Roger into a tight hug and told him, "I'm so sorry about your cat, Roger."

He held Roger until he had cried himself out. "Thank you." Roger shook his head. "I really loved that cat. She was like family, she came with me from Los Angeles."

"You need to change into some dry clothing. Don't want you getting sick. Your shirt is clean if you want to put that on... Do you want some coffee?"

Now that he was some semblance of calm, Roger felt a stab of guilt. "No, it's... oh, Jesus. I'll... I'm sorry I just walked in on you like this."

Mark rubbed his back. "Hey… it's okay. Let me just take care of you, hm? Here, my projector is all set up. Feel free to look at any of the reels you see around, okay? I'm gonna go make you some coffee." He hurried to the kitchen, not wanting to leave Roger alone for too long, then returned and planted a kiss in his forehead before going back again.

He returned with a cup of coffee, which Roger took gratefully. "Thank you." Mark moved towards one of the chairs, but Roger stopped him: "Please-- sit with me?" Mark did. "Thank you." Roger sat cross-legged, holding the mug and trying suppress shivers. He rank, hoping the coffee would warm him.

"Is there enough sugar in the coffee? I know you like it kind of bitter, but maybe I skimped too much on the sugar--"

"No, no, it's perfect. It's... thank you." Roger couldn't taste it. He knew it was warm and soothing on his throat, and made him feel less cold. "I'm sorry to walk in like this--and thank you. I can't say how much I appreciate this." He could not stress the importance of comfort, the ease of letting his guard drop for the first time since his cat was given the shot almost twenty-four hours ago.

"Hey, don't worry about it. I'm kinda happy you came to me. It make me feel… heh. Do you want me to show you a movie I've been working on?" _There are clips in there of you._

"Yes!" Of course he wanted to see his movie. _I've wanted to since the day we met._

Mark bit his lip. "It's nowhere near finished. I just work on it when the mood hits, you know?"

For a moment after the film ended, neither of them spoke0. Roger couldn't decide how he felt. _Half of me is so damn happy because Mark... because I mean as much to him as he does to me. The other half knows that Collins is right, and I need to tell him the truth, now, right now. Not right now. I just lost Angelino, I can't lose Mark, too. No, no, I'm being selfish, I--_

Roger felt his hand go to the scabs on his wrist, the last remnants of his cat, and he shook himself.

Mark was watching him carefully. "Oh," he said. "Mark... G-d, you're... amazing. You're gonna win a Nobel Prize someday."

Mark snorted. "Don't be afraid to tell me it needs major work. You don't have to sugarcoat it for me. You want something to eat? It won't be anything near your culinary genius, but it's better than nothing."

Roger shook his head. He wasn't hungry. "Mark... I really think you're great. I'm not just saying that. I think it needs a lot of work but it has--you have more potential than all of Hollywood combined. I guess you don't believe this, but I do think you can change the world. You can make people see."

Mark kissed Roger's forehead. "Just tell me if you're hungry later. Now, I insist you change out of those clothes, they're still dripping wet and you're freezing."

"I... I'll have to borrow some of yours, if that's okay." Roger had not exactly planned the trip. No, he had simply run: hopped the fence and sprinted off as quickly as his legs could carry him, running a long way before he rested himself in a subway car.

"You can borrow a pair of my sweats. It's no problem. The shirt you left is clean, too. Let me go get 'em."

"Thanks. Can I change in you room?" Of course. Roger changed into the dry clothes and rejoined Mark on the couch.

Mark pulled him into an embrace and held him tightly. "Do you want to talk about it?"

Roger pressed his face against Mark's shoulder and murmured, "I hate death."

TO BE CONTINUED!

Sorry this took so long... wow. We're nearing the end now.

Reviews would be very much appreciated!


	9. A Fucking Liar!

Disclaimer: RENT belongs to Jonathan Larson. I'm just playing with the characters.

MARK

Once Roger stopped crying, I led him into my room and told him to lie down. He asked, so I stayed until he fell asleep. Roger slept with a pillow clutched to his chest, curled around the pillow, his thumb in his mouth. I smiled. _He looks like a baby. Hard to believe he'll be twenty-one in… when?_

I remembered Roger mentioning his birthday was sometime in June... I stumbled into the kitchen. I needed a subtle way of finding out when his birthday is. A way that doesn't involve me asking him up front, obviously.

Roger's clothes were balled up in the bathtub, soaking wet. It was a stretch, but the only option I had at the moment. I checked the pockets and found, at the end of a chain, Roger's wallet.

It was brown, leather, and the kind that only has one fold, not three. I glanced over my shoulder, then flipped it open. Public library card (adorable!), a picture of a slinky grey cat, and… jackpot! His driver's license.

New York Driver License, Class C… Roger Gabriel Davis, an address, Sex: M, Hair: blonde (hardly), WT:-- really! He's heavy for such a skinny thing, but then he does have nice muscles. Eyes: Green, DOB: 06--15--69

1969? That didn't seem right. It was 1987. If Roger was born in 1969, he would only be turning… I calculated mentally. He would be turning eighteen, which made him--

"17?" I whimpered. "Holy shit, I am a pedophile! B-but Roger said he was 20... he said..." I rubbed my face furiously, trying to fight off a sudden wave of anger, to no avail. Before I could register my own actions, I had stormed into my room, swiped my pillow from his arms and brought it down, repeatedly, onto a sleeping Roger.

"You liar! You fucking liar!"

Roger rolled off the opposite side of the bed. He raised his hands, palms towards me. "Mark, I can explain!"

An enraged cry escaped my throat and I chucked the pillow at him, automatically fumbling for something harder to throw at him. "Fuck you!" The thought that I had made me nauseous. I grabbed the tea cup I'd placed on the side table and threw it.

The teacup shattered against Roger's chest. "Mark, please!"

"You fucking lied to me. You lied! You're just a kid!" I threw a second pillow. A nearby shoe. His pants. His wallet, his ID.

The shoe and pants he caught, but then his hands were full. He dropped the shoe and start to pull on his pants, hindered by the heaviness of the soaked denim. The wallet and ID hit him. "I know, I... I-- I'm sorry, I wanted to tell you, but I'm not--"

I stood there, shaking, finally out of things to throw. "You're sorry? Sorry doesn't cut it!" I watched him pull on his pants and with a sudden dread, I realized I couldn't bear him go. Even if he lied, even if he's underage, even if I lo--

If he was packing up and leaving, it was going to be because I kicked him out. "Fuck you, Roger! Get out! Get out right now! I don't want to see you…" My voice faltered and I was glad I was still so pissed, or I'd be crying.

"No... Mark, please don't, please let me explain..."

"I took several deep breaths, trying to calm myself. "What is there to explain?" I managed.

He shook his head. "I'm sorry." It came as a whisper. "I love you."

I blinked back tears and felt that familiar surge of rage take over. A part of me wanted to give Roger a chance to deny this. Say it's all some big mistake. That the people at the DMV are a bunch of retards. That he really is who he's said he is all along.

But the majority of me wanted to hurt him, tear him down and watch him suffer. "If you truly loved me," I told him coldly, "you wouldn't have done this to me."

"It's... it's... it's not that I don't love you. It's because I was being selfish. I thought... you would never need to know, never... it didn't matter."

"You're right. This isn't about you loving me. This is about you wanting me to love you. You selfish fuck. I've had enough of what you want. _I_ want you to get out." I took steps closer to the door and looked at him expectantly.

Roger looked at me as he left, briefly, and tried to speak. Then he shook his head and left. I was glad he did.

I could not have endured another second.

TO BE CONTINUED!

There was another part to this chapter, but it needs tweaking. Hopefully it'll be up soon, though!

Reviews would be great! Please?


	10. Come In

COLLINS

It was late evening, and I was running home, the rain pounding down on the city in relentless blows. And since I was foolish enough to be running through the streets without an umbrella or a raincoat, I was taking the brunt of it. I sighed in relief as I finally saw the old building and with freezing fingers, I fumbled through my pocket to take out my keys.

I thought nothing of the person curled on the doorstep. It was Alphabet City, waifs and strays were nothing to write home about. Or so I thought. Numb fingers refused to obey, and I dropped the keys. The sound made him jump, and he glanced over his shoulder at me, then quickly looked away.

"Roger? What the hell--" and then I realized. "Oh shit."

He looked up at me, tried to speak, and pushed tears off his face. I could think of nothing to say. Roger brought this on himself, but it looked as though he had punished himself for his mistake. He didn't need me to tell him it was wrong.

Finally, he said, "Hey," and he started to giggle, then began sobbing. His hands were wrapped around his feet which, I realized, were bare.

So Mark finally found out. I sighed. "Fuck, Roger…" I unlocked the door, then hauled Roger to his feet. "Let's get you inside before you catch something... or it gets worse."

He shook his head. He was shaking anyway, all of him shivering. "Mark... told me to go," he stammered.

I ignored him and hauled him up the stairs. Roger didn't protest. He didn't say anything, just scrubbed at his face with his free hand and tried to stop crying.

Even though I knew I warned him against this and I knew that this was an important lesson he was learning, I also felt Roger doesn't deserve this. He was a good kid, and good for Mark. If I had to, I decided, I would talk to Mark myself. Calm him down and set things straight. "How'd he find out?" I ask.

Roger stopped. He looked at me with an expression of terror and defeat, as though I would hurt him. As much as that hurt, I couldn't help but think there was something seriously wrong with this kid. "I was going to tell him," he said.

"I believe you. How'd he find out?"

"He found my license."

I tugged him up the stairs once more. "How'd he take it?" I already knew how, but I wanted to get Roger talking. I wanted to know both perspectives. Mark would tell me, and I knew he would be fairly angry when he did, so having Roger's side first gave me some preparation.

"He..." Someone needed to hug this kid. Not me-- not then, but someone and damn soon. "...threw things and, he kicked me out so I really don't think going back is the best idea..."

"I'm going to take my chances with a technicality. As far as you're concerned, you were kicked out of his room, not out of the loft. You're back because I'm not letting you sit in the rain and feel sorry for yourself." Knowing Mark, he's probably holed up in his room, anyway. "Anyway, I pay half the rent."

"Mark wanted me to go," he said. He shook me off and faced me, took a deep breath and with what was (for his teenaged pride) a tremendous effort said, "I'm scared. Okay? I'm really afraid of what will happen when I go back in there." He looked at some spot to the left of him.

I nodded. A part of me was ready to stop fighting him. It had been a long day, I had papers to grade, I did not need this. I couldn't fault myself if I sent Roger home to his mother, who was no doubt worried sick. But if Roger left, he could spend his entire life thinking that was it, never call Mark again, completely destroying Mark without knowing better. And he'd hurt himself, too.

"You're not scared of the loft," I told him. "You're afraid of Mark. You're afraid he'll reject you--"

"Why shouldn't I be?" Roger demanded. He shook his head, and I noticed a bruise on his cheek. It was faint, but it gave me some idea as to what was wrong. "Why should I set myself up to be knocked down again? Collins--"

"Roger, enough. Think about Mark for once--"

"I am thinking about Mark! I hurt him, he hates me, he doesn't want see me anymore!"

"Roger--" He turned to go, but I caught his arm. "Running away isn't going to help!"

"What is?" Roger asked. He was soaked, but something else caused his trembling. His tone was angry, but his eyes… Roger wasn't fighting. He was begging. "What will help, Collins? What will make this right, make me better, bring her back? If you can think of anything, please!"

"Roger, calm down-- Roger. You're hysterical. Just--" He began to cry again, not openly crying, but tears sprang into his eyes. He fought them back. "Hey." I hugged him under one arm. He didn't respond, but he didn't pull away either. "Roger, it's not the end of the world. Mark's angry but he'll get over himself. You two can work this out."

I slid open the loft door and poke my head in. "He's in his room, see? Come on, I'll lend you some clothes and you can stay here the night. We'll sort out through this shit tomorrow."

Roger stepped inside. "I'm fine," he said. "You're sure... I mean, sneaking me in doesn't seem like the best move. Mark doesn't want me here."

I close the loft door and decided to ignore Roger. "You can take the spare room. It's free for anyone to crash for the night. Stay here." I opened Mark's door silently, relieved to see he was sound asleep. Mark would probably sleep through a twelve-car pile-up outside his window, so I walked in casually and found some of Roger's clothes.

"Here. Your clothes. Change and go to sleep."

I was through with Roger, and relieved. I liked the kid, but… what Roger needed was a father, not a friend. And he deserved what he got. Roger lied to Mark, he perpetuated the lie. Everything he was suffering now, he had brought on himself.

This was what I told myself as I sat and listened to Roger cry.

Something he said jarred in my memory. "What will bring her back?" Her. Roger had said 'her,' not 'him', so he was quite obviously not talking about Mark. Who was 'she'? Oh, Christ, not his mother. That was too awful a thought.

I shook my head. _No_. Papers, I was grading papers, not thinking about Roger. If only he could keep it down!

…what a terrible thing to think. _Could ya cry more quietly, please, Roger?_ It just sounds so thoroughly wretched. I almost like it for its utterly twisted nature.

Grading was useless. I couldn't concentrate, distracted by his muffled sobs. The "spare room" was just a hole with a blanket nailed up for a door. I stacked my papers and headed for bed.

It is difficult to listen to someone cry, and do nothing. Even more difficult is ignoring it.

After a few minutes, I heard footsteps cross the loft and a knock at the door I was lucky enough to have. What existence was this, when a door was a luxury? And of all things, a door, not even a creative metaphor! "Collins?" Roger called softly, and I realized I had been lost in thought for some time.

"Yeah. Come on in." _Just don't ask me to get up…_

Roger opened the door, stepped into the room and closed the door behind him. There wasn't much point keeping quiet. Nothing short of World War Three was going to wake Mark. "Um… do… do you think I could sleep in here?" Roger asked. "Just on the floor."

"Roger--"

"I sleep quiet," he interrupted. "And I won't talk, I just… just…"

"Yeah," I said. "You can sleep in here."

"Thanks!" He sounded relieved, grateful, and all I had done was give him a patch of floor. I heard him settle beside the bed. He had brought a blanket with him; it rustled and settled around him. Roger sighed, then made no sound but his breathing.

Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale. And it was driving me mad!

"Roger."

"Yes?"

I leaned over and switched on the light. Roger was lying on his back, staring straight at the ceiling. His eyes were swollen and red. "Why didn't you tell him, Roger?" It was such an obvious question.

Roger's face contorted and I knew he was about to cry again, but instead he swallowed tears and said, "I don't know."

"Roger, you said, outside, that… you said something about, 'She won't come back.' Who's that, Roger?"

He rolled his head a few degrees to look at me with utter shock, as though unable to believe he hadn't told me. "I… my… cat," he mumbled. "She… died," he said. "Yesterday."

"You had a cat?"

"Yeah. You knew that. Remember, you asked about the scars…"

I nodded. "Yeah. I thought you were lying."

He squinted at me. "Why would I lie?"

"If you cut yourself."

"I'm… jeez. No. No way! That's sick!"

I backed down. "So why did you do that to Mark?" I asked. "Why lie in the first place?" When he shook his head, I told him, "Don't worry, Roger. I like you, that's not about to change. I like that you fuck up." He scoffed. "No, it's true. You've got a good heart, boy."

And Roger told me. "I never thought something like this would, could happen. Not to me. Meeting Mark is the best thing that's ever happened to me, I know that now but… if I had known then, I would have set in honest. Immediately. I wouldn't've lied about _anything_, but I didn't do that. If I had known, I would have… hell, I would've even told him I was a virgin." Realizing what he had said, Roger blushed. "Sorry," he said sheepishly.

I laughed, trying to relax him. Roger was finally talking to me, trusting me and telling the truth instead of defending himself. I didn't want to lose that. "Roger, it's just sex." Judging from his expression, no one had ever said that to him before. Of course, he was in high school, so half the girls dressed like whores and the bookworms were isolated because they didn't put out. Homosexuality, in Roger's eyes, was probably more defined by who he fucked than who he loved.

"Collins?"

"Yeah, man."

"I wanted to tell Mark. I didn't want to hurt him."

"I know," I told him, because he needed to hear that. "Try to get some sleep."

I turned out the light. Roger slept on the floor, but when I awoke I was holding his hand.

TO BE CONTINUED!

Near the end of this chapter I was writing alone, so I hope it came out okay!

Reviews would be awesome!


	11. Life Goes On

DISCLAIMER: RENT is Jonathan Larson's. We're just messin' with the characters.

Waking up on a cold winter's morning is probably the worst part of any given day. My muscles were stiff as I slowly stretched them out, joints a little sore, and my skin lacking the heat lost to the temperature of my surrounding environment.

It had been a long time, I realized, since I had absolutely nothing to look forward to. It wasn't like I had a job to keep me busy and distract me from how painful it was to think about Roger - the beautiful musician with callused fingers, the man I felt I was in love with, the fucking selfish liar! - and it was not like the only job I had appointed myself was going anywhere. I was surrounded with piles of unedited, unfocused, and uninspired reels of film (I'd hate to think how much money I've wasted!) and the only scenes I loved were shots of Roger...

"This is so ridiculous…"

I rolled over with a groan and forced myself to sit up. I wanted to stop thinking about him and worrying about him, but how could I? He lied about his age, who knows what else he had lied about? Maybe everything. My stomach churned at the thought and I swallowed the urge to heave. _That can't be true, right?_ Shaking my head, I pushed myself off my bed and pulled my sweats up to cover the skin that the loose elasticity had allowed to make an appearance.

I was halfway to the kitchen when I finally noticed Collins.

"Morning," he said.

I nodded in response and shuffled my way to the refrigerator. "We need food," I announced, closing the door and leaning on it. This wasn't completely true; there were still some leftovers Roger had become accustomed to leaving every time he came over.

"Thought Rog left something?"

"Well, you thought wrong." I pushed myself away from the refrigerator and towards my room. _Maybe I should just sleep all day..._

Collins gave his breakfast a severely scrutinizing look. "Then I should definitely not be eating this."

I chuckled. "You know where the bathroom is, just in case." I paused at the doorway to my room with my back to Collins. "If Roger calls…" I sighed and didn't have the heart to finish.

"Did something happen between you two? I thought he was here." I followed his gaze to the boots pushed neatly against the couch.

"When you first met Roger, how did you know he was seventeen?" I was curious. "I mean, seriously? Did he tell you?" _Because he didn't tell me…_

"At first, I didn't. I knew he was lying and took a guess. When I asked him and he got defensive..."

"Oh. Makes sense." I stood there awkwardly. I wanted Collins to invite me over because I felt like I was going to destroy myself if left to my own devices. I wanted company. I felt like an idiot, both for being fooled and then kicking him out.

"You want to talk about it?" he asked. He watched me for a moment, then returned to his breakfast, making it obvious that he had other things than me to focus on. "Come on, Mark. Sit down. If nothing else, you'll feel better."

I managed not to sigh in relief. "Okay." I was especially careful to look like this was his idea, like all I wanted to do is crawl in a hole and forget. Oh, wait.

"'So you found out?"

"Yeah." And it was the worst moment of my life. "Can we talk about something else, Col?"

"We can, but I don't see why we would."

Slightly annoyed, I clarified for him, "Because I don't want to talk about this right now." _Some genius…_

He scoffed. "Mark, you don't want to talk about this _at all_."

"You know me so well, so just drop it." It was almost as if Collins was looking for a fight!

He recoiled theatrically. "Fine. Did I ever tell you I changed my name?"

"You did? Why?"

"Well, it was always Thomas Collins-- I don't think they realized that when they named me. When I was about ten someone found out what that means and they teased me and... well, long story short I didn't like it, so when I went to junior high which, well, not to brag but I went to a school none of those fuckers could'a hoped to spit on." He grinned. "Anyway, I used my middle name. Told everyone it was my first name. Then I got to college and thought being 'Tom Collins' was really cool and... it stuck.' He shrugged and went on eating.

It seems silly now to think anyone would make fun of Collins' name, but I haven't forgotten what the years of my early childhood were like. "What's your middle name?" It was a thought that had never occurred to me simply because Collins' name had never come up as a topic of conversation before. Most of Collins' past had never come up.

"Ben. Makes sense, right? Trade a whacked out name for a perfectly good one."

"I suppose. Though I don't think your name was whacked out to begin with."

"I love my name, but hey, I was a kid and I didn't like people making fun of me all the time." I nodded. I had definitely been there. "Mark, why do you think Roger lied to you?"

"Col, I asked you to drop this. I don't know why he lied to me. Frankly, I don't care." Which was utter bullshit. I did care, of course I cared.

"I know you asked, Mark. But frankly, I think you're being an idiot. You love Roger. This wouldn't hurt so much if you didn't. Do you really just want to throw that away?"

I sighed and rested my forehead on the table. "I've already lost him so what's the point?"

"The point is you haven't lost him. The point is understanding why anyone would do that to you. The point is being able to forgive him, because you still love him. The point is you not being such a little bitch anymore, Mark! You keep ignoring shit like this, but it doesn't go away."

I rarely fought with Collins, but then I just lost my temper. "What do you know? You weren't there when it happened! How are you going to help me anyway? By calling me a bitch and forcing me to open up to you? Fuck you, Collins! You can't possibly know how I feel! I was fooled and blinded by strong feelings of affection for some boy! I've never been so embarrassed in my life! You can't possibly fix this with your theories of life and relationships! This is actual reality, not the perfect world you live in!"

Collins gave as bad as I did. I wish I could say worse, but… "Love is supposed to blind you, Mark! It's not a good enough reason that I'm sick of watching you hurt yourself? Watching you be too big a coward to risk trusting someone or making yourself happy? Because I give a damn about you, Mark, whatever you tell yourself. I give a damn about him, too. Because you were happy together! And you're only throwing that away because you're scared. And as for humiliating you... Mark, who knows but you and Roger? And which is judging you?"

"I didn't throw anything away!" I bit my lip. I wanted this to stop. He was hitting too close to home, he was making me face this. "I didn't.." I whimpered. "He did."

"No. He did something stupid and selfish. But he also did the only thing he knew to do. Mark. Who do you think Roger is in his world?"

I shrug.

"Do you still want him?"

_Yes. Oh god, yes. More than I'm willing to admit._ "Will my answer change anything?"

"No, since we both know the answer, but I think it would be good for you to say it out loud. Just to me. You know you can trust me, Mark. I'm your friend."

"I still want him." And I hated how I sounded just then: defeated, pathetic. "I.. I don't want to lose him. Col, I don't want to lose him. I don't."

"Do you think you can forgive him?"

_Probably not until I understand his reasoning._ "With time." It's probably not the answer Collins hoped to hear, but the only answer I can honestly give.

"Mark, I know why. If you think it'll help, I do think I know why Roger did that."

I shook my head. "No. I want him to be the one to tell me." If I ever saw him again…

"All right. Well, is there anything you do want to talk about?"

I shook my head once more. Talk, far as I was concerned, was over-rated.

"All right. Then I'm heading to work. Oh, but Mark-- I know a whole lot more than you gave me credit for. I don't think the world's perfect and I've seen a lot worse than a boyfriend who doesn't know any better. And I can and will kick your ass if you cross the line with me."

I sighed. Was there any part of my life not ruined by my break-up with Roger?

TO BE CONTINUED!

I'm leaving town on Sunday, so I'll try to get this story completed before then, Internet allowing (my internet is very touchy right now. Because it's a poohead.)

Reviews would be very, very appreciated! Please?


	12. It's Over

Disclaimer: RENT belongs to Jonathan Larson, as do the characters, etc. I'm just playin'.

I awoke, not even tired, and there was daylight. I smiled.

Then I remembered where I was and why and I huddled under the blanket and squeezed my eyes shut. _goawaygoawaygoaway..._ It didn't work, and I had to-- almost wanted to face Mark again. Because maybe it's childish and immature, but I still hoped he would forgive me, at least hear me out. _I'll just grab some coffee and put my thoughts together. I always do better with a planned speech. I--_

_SHIT!_

Mark was standing there, right there, right in the middle of the room and _maybe I can get back to Collins' room before he-- too late_. Mark saw me.

He looked as though he had seen a ghost. "R-Roger?"

_Is he still angry? Can we talk? Is he-- oh, G-d, is he going to throw things at me?_ My muscles tensed, ready to duck, and I said, "Uh... hey, Mark." Nice to see you again!

It really was. _G-d, he's so beautiful..._ I felt myself begin to swoon and promptly blinked away those thoughts.

"Hi?" Mark rubbed his forehead. "Jesus, I know I had trouble sleeping last night, but that's really you, right? I'm not imagining this, am I?"

It occurred to me that it would be particularly romantic to kiss him and ask if an apparition could do that. But I think kissing a maybe-ex boyfriend was not a very bright move. I nodded. "It's me." _I can go if you want..._

"Oh, good. Cause until this moment, I thought I was never going to see you again…"

He sat down at the table and motioned me over. "Sit, baby-- er, Roger, don't just stand there."

I did as he asked, and I didn't say a word. I didn't look at him. And this... this was an act of contrition I had seen so many times it should be affectation but it was not. It felt right. My body moved, I did not ask it to. I just sat and I waited.

After a moment's silence I glanced up at Mark, hoping he was looking away, hoping I would have a chance to study him, see what he was thinking-- he was looking right at me. Right. At. Me. I quickly stared at my hands again.

"You know, Rog, I don't… it's not that I care about your age. I just want to know why."

"I'm--" sorry. I swallowed the word. It wouldn't do any good. "Selfishness," I told him. "Fear. At first it was... it was just a line, I didn't think... I didn't... look at you and, and know that I loved you, I just... we were hanging out, and... and then... I didn't know how to tell you because... because I was scared that you wouldn't love me. Because I wasn't the person you fell in love with, and... I was so selfish, I'm so--" NO! I fell silent and waited for him to kick me out. Again.

"You're not the one I fell in love with? So everything else we ever talked about was a lie, as well? You don't live with your grandmother and have a part time job?"

"I... I do work. Barely, but... I help out with Saturday and Sunday rush. I live with my mom and my stepdad." I didn't know what else to tell him. "I go to school during the day," I said, quietly enough that he could talk over me with ease. "I play sports and guitar. I love you. I'm sorry, I--" I didn't mean to say that, it just slipped out. "The cat..." I stopped, covered my eyes. It was too fresh. "I did have a cat," I managed, ashamed that my voice broke. "And she did die two days ago."

"I never doubted you about your cat…" He placed a hand on my arm.

I liked Mark's hand there. It made me feel... better. About everything. About the cat, my life... about me. I wanted to ask him-- what now? Will you take me back? But I didn't. Mark would make his move, and I was too afraid to rush him.

"Where do we go from here?"

I didn't really feel I had any right to do this, to even ask for this, but I raised my eyes slightly to ask, "Would you..." take me back? "can you forgive me?"

"Yeah. I can." Mark smiled.

I gave a shaky smile in return. "Thank you." An almost impossible stir of happiness began in my gut.

He squeezed my arm once before standing up. "You hungry? I'm not as good as you are in the kitchen, but I'm sure I can fix you up something."

"No--" I grabbed his hand gently, then realized what I'd done and stopped. "Sorry." I pulled back my hand.

Mark sat back down. "No, it's fine. You're not hungry?"

Hungry? I had forgotten how to be. I don't think I'd eaten since... since... probably in about 40 hours. I didn't care. I just wanted to sit with Mark, just be with him. That's what I told him. I couldn't look at him as I said it. _Who am I to ask for anything?_

"Ok. We can do that." He tugged me away from the table and led me to the couch, where he pull him down to lay with him. "Is this okay?"

Okay! It was more than okay. This was... this was bliss. I held his hands. "This is perfect. You're perfect. I don't deserve you." I murmured the last part to myself. Mark was... perfect. _I'm gonna be a better boyfriend... I just wish I knew what I was doing._ "I love you."

He kissed my shoulder. "I love you, too." He pressed his hand to my chest and I remembered the tea cup. "Does it still hurt?" he asked, his voice soft and low.

"I've had worse." What really hurt was the blue spot on my forehead where the shoe hit me. Now that hurt. "I deserved it." In case he began to doubt that. I was definitely an asshole. And not just in the good way.

"No you didn't. I should have controlled myself. Sorry." He kissed my shoulder again.

"Mark, I was stupid, okay? I was selfish and I hurt you. Don't apologize for throwing a teacup. I think I more than earned it. And I don't want that between us." Especially not something as small as that.

"Okay." He tightened his hold on me, and didn't say another word.

Neither did I. I couldn't help but know that my mom was worried sick, that I was missing a second day of school... and I couldn't help but not care. Because how can anything not be perfect?

I cuddled closer against Mark, closed my eyes, and waited for this moment to never end.

THE END!

Yup, last chapter up just before I leave. I hope anyone reading this enjoyed the story; reviews would be loved! Please?


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